Paean to Eros
by Regina lacrimarum
Summary: Hermione is the new Arithmancy and Ancient Runes teacher at Hogwarts; Fleur is teaching Defense against the Arts. Neither is happy, but they may get along better than they realize. Mild femmeslash is responsible for T rating.
1. Fiery Orange Hair

_Dear Professor McGonagall,  
Thank you for giving me time to discuss this with Ron. In the end, I decided to accept your offer. I will see you sometime in early June, if that is amenable to you.  
Sincerely,  
Hermione_

Since she didn't have an owl, Hermione had to take a trip to the owlery. She fed the elderly Crookshanks, left a note for Ron, in case he came over looking for her before she came back, and left her flat.

Diagon Alley was busy and bustling, and Hermione had to fight her way through the crowds, but she eventually reached the owlery. She sent her letter, paid her fee, and headed home.

As she was wading through the sea of people, something hard connected with her knee. She looked down and saw a shock of fiery orange hair disappearing through the crowd. It had to be a Weasley, but she should have recognized all of them. Curious, she followed the bright head through the crowd to Flourish and Blott's, where she stopped dead. Emerging from the store with a bag and three children in tow was Fleur Delacour-Weasley.

She was dressed in unseasonably warm clothing: black, pointy boots, a black floor-length skirt, and a black blouse. She looked tired and thin, but not yet worn out. Hermione was too surprised at seeing her even to be disgusted that even hardship could not diminish the effect of Veela blood. Men all along the street took a second from their hectic lives to stare at her.

At first, the older woman didn't seem to notice Hermione. She was scolding the redhead, a boy, as it turned out, about the dangers of running away in crowded places.

"And you could 'ave been lost. Look at me, Louis. Do you understand me?"

Her accent was much less prominent, Hermione noticed. It was true, then, that she had gone, not back to France, but to a small wizarding town in Scotland, far away from both the Burrow and Shell Cottage, but still in the United Kingdom. There had been some debate about that amongst the members of the Weasley family.

Fleur looked up and drew in a sharp breath. "'ermione Granger?"

Hermione nodded. "Good to see you again, Fleur," she managed, rather bravely, in her opinion. After all, it had been _years_ since she had last seen the woman, at Bill's funeral. "Are you moving back? To England," she added as an unnecessary afterthought.

"No, no." Fleur's looked pained, and her blue eyes wouldn't meet Hermione's brown ones. "I 'ave taken a job in Scotland. I am 'ere only to geet something for my seester. Gabrielle was busy today."

"Oh." Hermione felt the awkwardness of the ensuing pause rather keenly, and endeavored to fill it. "Would you like to come over for a cup of tea, then?"

Fleur shook her elegant head. "Thank you, 'ermione, but I cannot. I must go now."

Hermione couldn't say she was sorry, but she felt obligated to add, as Fleur began to turn away, "Maybe you will visit Molly Weasley when you get a chance? She'd love to see you."

Fleur stopped dead, and her children looked at her inquisitively. "No," she said. "I do not think I will."

And she walked away, with her long French braid swinging to and fro, especially white against the black of her dress.

* * *

At home, Hermione made herself tea and considered telling her future mother-in-law that Bill's children had been to England. She eventually decided against it. Fleur would have spirited them away again by now, and Molly would only be hurt to know that her grandchildren had been so close without her knowing.

She didn't tell Ron, either. Despite his general liking of Fleur, he had been furious when she had disappeared with his nieces and nephews, and he probably wouldn't be pleased to hear that she had refused to introduce her children to the family.

Hermione now turned her thoughts toward Fleur's children.

The oldest, Victoire, had looked well. She was a carbon copy of Gabrielle as Hermione remembered her from the Triwizard Tournament. In twenty years, no doubt she would be the spitting image of her mother.

If she remembered correctly, Louis, the boy, was the middle child. He, too, had seemed content.

The youngest (Delia?), though, had looked miserable. Every few seconds, she had cast a nervous glance at her mother, and she had seemed unable to stop fidgeting.

Hermione frowned, and took a sip of her tea, which had grown tepid while she was lost in thought. She couldn't see Fleur abusing her children, but there was something definitely wrong there...

Oh, well. She couldn't do anything about it. She should give the almost-member of her almost-family the benefit of the doubt. Hermione drained her mug of tea and went off to find Crookshanks, who was sulking because she had left him alone for most of the afternoon.


	2. Sunshine

A/N: The last prompt was "fiery orange hair." This one is "sunshine." You can get an idea of what each prompt is by the title of the chapter.

* * *

"You're not my only new teacher, Ms. Granger."

Hermione nodded. "I guessed as much. The teachers during Dumbledore's time were all around the same age. It makes sense that they would need to be replaced around the same time. Exactly how many new teachers are there?"

"Four, including you." McGonagall smiled a little. "Your friend Mr. Longbottom is one of them. He has accepted the Herbology position. With him has come Hannah Abbott, his fiancee, who will take over for Madame Pomfrey. She was unhappy at St. Mungo's, as, I believe, you were at the Ministry."

Hermione did not take kindly to probes, and had the speaker been anyone else, she might have answered curtly. Minerva McGonagall, though, was an old friend, and deserved to know the truth.

"Yes, I was. There were so many hoops to jump through, and the end result was almost never worth it. Harry and Ron were very supportive, but once they realized I wouldn't let them pull strings to get me a promotion, they didn't really know how to help. I think Harry, at least, was glad I decided to come here."

McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Weasley was not?"

Hermione sighed. "He's happy for me, he really is, but he wants me near him, and this isn't exactly his dream situation. With Quidditch training and games, he already feels like we don't spend enough time together."

McGonagall spoke gently. "He's a good boy. You'll work it out."

Hermione smiled. "I know. He's wonderful, really." She cast about for any questions she needed answered about the post, but salary, requirements, and recommendations had all been explained. "Do you mind if I take a look around? It's been a long time."

"Of course not." McGonagall rose, and Hermione followed suit. "Take all the time you need, Ms. Granger. And do visit Rubeus. He's missed you all very much."

Hermione promised that she would drop in on the Care of Magical Creatures teacher and set out on a self-guided tour of the grounds.

The castle was much the same as it always had been, though many portraits, having been damaged during the war, had been replaced. Hermione introduced herself to some of them. She had now seen all she cared about inside.

As she headed outside, Hermione wondered who the other new teachers were, and wished that she had thought to ask Professor McGonagall. She knew that Neville would be teaching Herbology-it was hardly a surprise-and she herself had taken over Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, which were so advanced and so little in demand that one teacher could handle them both.

That left Potions and Defense against the Dark Arts.

Hermione nearly went the way of Antaeus when Hagrid saw her. His enthusiasm was such that he lifted her from the ground and nearly crushed her ribcage. This led to great remorse, and Hermione, who didn't want to make Hagrid unhappy, fought not to wince whenever she had to move her torso.

The visit lasted for the rest of the morning. Hagrid wanted to hear every detail of not just her life, but also Harry's and Ron's. Then he had to rant for an hour about the unfairness of her just-above-entry-level position at the Ministry, and how right it was for her to leave. He told Hermione about his thestrals, his growing connection with Madame Maxine, and his tenuous diplomatic relations with the centaurs. The one issue of interest to Hermione, the other new teachers, was the only one about which she could obtain no information. Hagrid knew nothing about it, and more than probably would not have cared if he had.

Despite the lack of satisfaction in this area, Hermione was glad to have come. She had always been close to Hagrid, and they had become closer shortly after the war. Hermione had restored her parents' memories, and the one to whom she cried when they refused to forgive her had been Hagrid. He had also been the one to show up at her parents' house and roar at them for not making allowances for Hermione's perilous position. The recipient of his generosity never knew exactly what he had said to her family, but they had invited her over a night later, and the tension had faded into the background after a month or so.

For that reason, let alone his kindness to her while she was still in school, Hermione sat patiently through Hagrid's assorted ramblings, announcing her intention to leave only when he seemed to have exhausted his supply of topics. He showed her to the door with characteristic cheer, pressing a bag of rock cakes into her hand.

Leaving the dimly lit hut, Hermione was blinded by the sunshine. It reflected off the surface of the lake, creating thousands of golden ripples. She didn't have to be anywhere until dinnertime, and she decided to take a stroll around the lake shore.

It was a glorious summer day, and the sun was high, but this was still Scotland, and Hermione wasn't too hot. She nevertheless walked more slowly than her usual pace, which was better suited to getting from her office to a meeting quickly than it was for a solitary leisure excursion.

Hermione had developed a highly tuned sixth sense as a result of her war experiences and she knew somehow that she had seen the figure on the far side of the lake before. There was no way she could know that, the distance was much too great, but she did.

It was not until the other person was very close that Hermione actually recognized her. When she did, she couldn't speak for a moment.

Fleur Delacour was still wearing black, but it was now a silk kimono. Her hair was back in a bun that had been skewered by two black chopsticks, and her wand was visible in one of the pockets of her garment. She looked just as surprised to see Hermione as Hermione was to see her, but she recovered more quickly.

"'ermione. What brings you to 'ogwarts?"

"I could ask you the same question," Hermione replied.

"I am ze new Defense against ze Dark Arts teacher. Professor McGonagall asked me to come."

"Then we'll be working together. I'm going to be teaching Arithmancy and Ancient Runes." And wasn't this going to be fabulous. The one member of the Weasley family whom she had never liked _would_ be the one who became her colleague.

Fleur frowned. "You are very young to be a teacher, are you not?"

Hermione glared. "I'm not that much younger than you are."

Fleur didn't look convinced. "Hmm. You are teaching two subjects?"

Hermione nodded. "They're only electives, and hard ones at that, so the classes are small and don't meet very frequently. Besides, I have some ideas about how to reduce the workload." She immediately wished she hadn't added the last sentence. Fleur the Champion was the last person to whom she wanted to communicate her thoughts on teaching. Actually, it shouldn't matter. Fleur was likely to brush the subject off, anyway.

To Hermione's great surprise, Fleur pursued the topic. "Ideas?"

Hermione reluctantly explained, "I want to combine the two classes for the older years."

"Eef you weel walk with me, I would like to hear about zem."

Hardly able to believe her ears, Hermione explained her plans.

The basic premise was that, because Ancient Runes and Arithmancy had many common applications, and many interesting Arithmancy texts were written in runes, starting in sixth year, students could take a class based around both. They would have to have had four years of one, and at least two of the other. The one in which they had more experience would be their focus. They would be required to have received at least an Excellent in their focus subject and an Acceptable in the other for their OWLs.

The basic class materials would be the same whether each pupil was more proficient in Ancient Runes or Arithmancy, but homework assignments would be slightly different based on each individual's focus. Some class time would be devoted to the class splitting into two groups depending on their focus and discussing those portions of their assignment that differed from the other half's.

At the end of their seventh year, students would take the NEWT for their focus subject, and could elect to take the NEWT for the other subject.

"Some students," Hermione concluded, "may not like it, because they have no interest in one subject or the other, but honestly, you can't get a really good idea of the science behind Arithmancy if you just read translations of the texts, and there's no point on reading Ancient Runes unless you use the knowledge for some practical purpose."

Hermione stopped abruptly, aware that she had been speaking for some time, and that they had walked almost back to the castle. Strangely, Fleur showed none of the desire to escape that Harry and Ron displayed whenever Hermione began to discuss academics. She asked, "What weell you do for now? Many students have not taken both?"

Hermione had considered this problem at length, and had an answer ready. "For rising fifth years who will want to take the advanced classes, I will offer study sessions in their weak subject so that they can acquire two years' worth of knowledge in half that time. It will take some doing," she admitted, "but then, if you aren't willing to work hard, you shouldn't be taking NEWT level Arithmancy _or_ Ancient Runes."

Fleur nodded, and Hermione fancied for a second that there was a gleam of approval in the cool blue eyes. Then they stepped from the sunshine into the shadow of the castle, and the Veela's face was again impassive. "I am going to my rooms. I will see you at dinner."

Hermione bid her farewell and went to find her own rooms, which she had not yet seen. The elves had delivered her belongings there without prompting, so she had had no reason to go there herself.

The starter password, which Hermione delivered to an eerily pale man whom she had apparently disturbed sipping a thick red liquid, was _Transylvania_. Hermione, who had been a well-read Muggle for many years before she had come to Hogwarts, understood the implications. She quickly offered _grindylow_ as a replacement and went inside, rubbing her hand self-consciously against her neck, which suddenly felt very exposed.

The room into which she now stepped was nothing like she had imagined. While she had been in school, Hermione had never had cause to discover where any of her teachers slept. If she had ever given it serious thought, she would have formed a vague mental picture of a cluttered office-cum-bedroom.

This was entirely unlike that picture. The main room contained a fireplace, a couch, a coffee table, and four cabinets. They were almost entirely empty, but one boasted a kettle, three chipped mugs, and a box with several varieties of tea. Hermione's heart warmed at the homey touch, and she made a mental note to thank the headmistress.

A single door led to her bedroom, which had been provided with dark wood furniture in the same simple style as the entire living room. The bed was large and soft, and the whole room felt like home already, but the best part was Crookshanks, asleep on a ratty old blanket in the corner. Hermione wondered how long it had taken the elves to figure out that Crookshanks was only calm when he had that faded cotton cloth to knead and shed on.

Hermione spent the rest of the afternoon getting settled in her new residence, and left at five till eight for dinner.

It would be a small group that night, she knew, in all likelihood just McGonagall and her new teachers. The more senior teachers would arrive in August; the new arrivals had to come much earlier than that to create lesson plans from scratch and review them with the headmistress.

When Hermione entered the Great Hall at half past seven, there were eight people already eating: McGonagall, Neville and Hannah, Fleur and her three children, and Draco Malfoy. Upon realizing what the presence of the latter must mean, Hermione came to a halt in the middle of the hall. McGonagall gave her a look that made her feel like a disobedient first-year, but she _refused _to sit down with and be civil to that-that-

Hermione sighed. _That was ten years ago. That was ten years ago._ Hermione was so busy reciting that mantra in her head to keep from fleeing the room that she almost didn't hear Malfoy greeting her.

"Hermione Granger. It's been a long time."

Hermione would never know how she managed a smile. "It has, hasn't it? It's...good to see you again."

McGonagall looked relieved at the lack of bloodshed. She hastily turned the conversation to the representative from Beauxbatons. "Ms. Granger, you'll remember Ms. Delacour."

Malfoy, who must have been familiar with the saga of Bill Weasley, snorted. To his credit, he kept his mouth shut.

Hermione nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

Hermione spent the rest of the night catching up with Neville, who beamed at Hannah the whole time, never looking at Hermione. It would have been offensive if it hadn't so obviously had nothing to do with how interesting or dull her conversation was. Malfoy was blessedly silent, and Fleur spoke only to her children. Victoire and Louis were full of energy, but Dominique still looked about her with frightened eyes.


	3. Soldier

The first two months of the school year went by remarkably fast. Organized though she was, Hermione barely had time to keep up with everything she had to do.

McGonagall had waited until the first official staff meeting to spring on Hermione the request to take over the duties of Gryffindor's Head of House. This was highly irregular, but Hagrid was hopeless at it, and Hermione was famous for being able to handle anything thrown at her. Of course, everyone had assumed that Hermione and Minerva had discussed this in advance and come to an agreement, and Hermione had had no choice but to accept the post, especially after Draco Malfoy had been appointed the new Head of Slytherin.

Despite its greatness, Hermione's brilliant and detail-oriented mind would not by itself have been enough to see her through. Luckily, it didn't need to be. Hermione had a little something extra: stubbornness. She refused to admit that she couldn't do something, and so she did it.

She had help from several unlikely sources. Fleur tutored some of the Arithmancy students, lightening Hermione's overall load considerably. Malfoy, perhaps because he was a shrewd politician or maybe because under everything he really did have a heart, put the fear of Draco into his Slytherins, so that they did whatever Professor Granger said without so much as a whimper of protest. And Flitwick surreptitiously muttered the incantation for a Cheering Charm once a week at breakfast.

Of course, this was all done without Hermione's knowledge. She earnestly believed that her Arithmancy pupils were geniuses, that the Slytherins just liked her, and that something about Wednesdays at Hogwarts just naturally made her stress melt away.

The interesting thing was that Fleur began to notice that the teenagers she was supposed to be tutoring on the sly knew things she had never mentioned. When she asked one girl about it, the student shyly explained that she had been studying, hoping to make Professor Granger, her favorite teacher, proud. Interviews with several other students produced similar results.

Draco came across a thuggish fifth-year Slytherin terrorizing a smaller boy who had dared insult Hermione's wild hair.

And when once Flitwick was too worried about a sick relation to remember to help his protege on her way to contentment, Hermione hummed her way through the day.

What miracle was occurring? The answer is quite simple, and has in fact nothing to do with any deities or guardian angels. You see, the reason Hermione had been unpopular as a student was that she had tried to make her classmates learn outside of the classroom. As a teacher, however, she was expected to make them learn. She did that and, being a good teacher by nature-something she would have discovered early on in life if given a chance-she went further, making her pupils _want_ to learn. That, in turn, made her want to teach.

With all the enthusiasm in the air, it was easy to forget that Hermione had ever lived any other life than this one. Then, in early November, something happened to force that memory back on everyone.

It was almost nine o'clock, and students were hurrying off to their first class of the day. Hermione was walking with one of her seventh year Ancient Runes students, explaining the literal and figurative meanings of a particularly complex phrase, when there was an explosion.

Later, it would be determined that Mephistopheles Taub had gotten the product from Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes, and that he hadn't known how loud it would be. None of that mattered in the few seconds after the thing exploded.

In the few seconds following the blast, while everyone else was clutching their hands over their ears, Hermione had pushed her student to the floor, out of harm's way, and leapt over him. Faster than the eye could move, Hermione had reached the unfortunate prankster, forced him to the ground, and put her wand against his throat.

There was a beat of oppressive silence. Then Hermione cleared her throat self-consciously and eased the pressure off of Mephistopheles's windpipe. In one smooth movement, she stowed her wand away and yanked her student up by his robes.

"You have some explaining to do, Mr. Taub." She marched off to her office with him, leaving silence in her wake.

Three months later, Hermione was the only teacher not targeted in a well-intentioned prank involving fireworks and rubber duckies.

* * *

Fleur contemplated her colleague over a goblet of honeyed wine. Hermione was engaging in a guarded conversation with Malfoy, who seemed totally unaffected by the display of speed, agility, and paranoia that he had witnessed earlier that day. He seemed content to continue developing his bizarre friendship with his one-time nemesis without any reference, positive or negative, to the fact that her reflexes had almost led to the cursing of a student.

Fleur was unable to be so indifferent about the matter. She had received a nasty shock.

It was so easy to think of Hermione as a carefree civilian, so easy to forget that she had fought for her life, that she had killed a man in cold blood.

Looking at the slender, pale young woman, laughing about a botched Potion, it was hard to remember that Hermione had been, was, and always would be a soldier.


	4. Love? What do I know about love?

There are benefits to being a good teacher-apples and admiration from amorous adolescents-but there are drawbacks as well. Hermione was so caught up in the swirling cloud of her teaching and tutoring that her entire world shrank to the grounds of Hogwarts. She occasionally fired off a letter to one of her parents or a friend, but these increasingly tended to contain detailed accounts of this or that lesson.

A little known fact about the Hogwarts staff is that they were, like professors at a university, encouraged to perform original research, though it was not mandatory. Hermione had found a fascinating contradiction in an Arithmantic (ed. Is that the adjective?) equations, and she was eagerly exploring the implications. When she received the intriguing letter from Ron, the first correspondence in two months that was longer than a paragraph, it was 2:01 am, and Hermione's fingers were covered in chalk from the board in her office. She dusted her hands off and read the letter through.

She deigned to put aside her calculations for a minute and respond. Yes, she was well, and so was Malfoy (Hermione had not mentioned Fleur to her friends, but had told them that Malfoy had developed into a very nice young man). Was everyone else? Of course she would love to meet Ron on Saturday morning in Diagon Alley.

* * *

Hermione had received Ron's letter on Tuesday, and by the time Saturday rolled around, she had thoroughly considered all the possible reasons for its sending. The list was not long. Breakup, proposal, death of a family member, something to do with their celebrity status, etc. Curiously, _he just missed me_ never entered Hermione's head.

As Hermione waited outside the brightly painted Dragon's Deli, she decided that option #4 was most likely, and she was prepared to refuse requests for a dozen interviews.

A quarter of an hour later, Ron showed up wearing a green jumper Hermione herself had given him. He was on time for once in his life, and Hermione fought to contain her amazement.

The two found a seat at a little table in the corner, selected by Ron because the roar from the other tables foiled any eavesdroppers, and Hermione smiled at her long-time boyfriend. "It's wonderful to see you, Ron. May I ask why I have the pleasure?"

Ron cleared his throat and fiddled with his silverware. Finally, he said, "A few days ago, Harry was telling his children about his wedding, and Mum said something about our time coming soon."

Hermione opened her mouth to say that she had no intention of making Ron marry her before he was ready, but he cut her off.

"Please, listen. I know that you don't want to pressure me. I understand that. But lately I've been thinking.

"I love you, Hermione, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I don't have a ring, but I'll get one. I don't have a house, but I'll get one. I'm getting older. I can quit the Cannons and we can go live in the country if you like. Just please, marry me."

Hermione was in shock. Some people deal with stress through silence; our heroine was of the sort that babbles. "I don't know what to say. I love you, but I have work to do and research and I thought you didn't want to get married. And I'm just really, really busy right now, and maybe this isn't the best time and-"

Ron's eyes were closed and his head was bowed. "Stop, please." Hermione abruptly did as requested, but her companion did nothing to fill the following silence. They sat there until their food came, and then gratefully seized the excuse not to make stilted conversation.

They got through their meals and were waiting for the bill when Ron spoke again. "Do you love me?"

Insulted, Hermione snapped, "Of course I do! How can you even ask that?"

Ron's smile held a touch of bitterness. "Who are the other players on my team? What's my uniform number? How are we supposed to do this season?"

Hermione cast about for a reply. "Justin Grindmore," she said finally.

Ron laughed hysterically, and all the surrounding static in the world couldn't have saved him from the suspicious stares of the other diners. "Grindmore quit last season to spend more time with his family."

Hermione swallowed.

"And you know something? I realize that you don't care about Quidditch, but have you ever told me anything about what you do every day?"

Hermione's breath left her in a rush. "You always seemed so bored," she protested.

Ron shook his head. "I tried to understand you, Hermione. I didn't get it, but I tried. Did you ever make the same effort?"

Hermione had been merely stunned and hurt; now she was angry. "I'm sorry I'm such a burden to you! I'm so sorry you have to try to understand poor, boring Hermione Granger!"

Ron flushed, and looked ashamed. "I didn't mean that."

"Of course you didn't. You never do."

The bill came, and Ron seized it before Hermione could reach. He paid, and Hermione rose quickly, intent on getting away.

Ron grabbed her arm. "Can we talk for a sec?"

"Isn't that we were doing? You were telling me how I was selfish and dull, remember?"

Ron sighed. "I think... we should give it a rest for a while."

Still trying to get loose from him, but unwilling to be so rude as to Apparate away, Hermione threw up her hands. "There's a surprise!"

"Not forever. Just for the next few months."

Hermione shrugged. "Fine."

Ron let go of her arm. "I'll see you at Christmas, then?" Receiving no reply, he fled.

* * *

Hermione Apparated just outside the grounds, and walked quickly up to the castle, ignoring the jovial greetings of the students who passed, enjoying the unseasonably warm day. She wanted to curl up in her bed and never leave it again, but she was supposed to have lunch with Hannah. The Healer would come looking for her in her rooms, and if she had to see the woman, she would feel too guilty to skip their meeting.

Instead of staying in her suite, Hermione therefore grabbed her book of notes and went to the library to read up on Polyjuice Potion. For once, her quest was purely academic. She and Malfoy had been discussing the effects on a person who took the potion made with animal hair-a topic close to Hermione's heart-and she wanted to see if there were any specific components or methods of preparations that could cause the condition, for which there was a cure, but no known cause. This was very complex research, and many people would treat with disgust the idea of using it as a way to forget one's love troubles. Hermione, though, had been reading about bioengineering by the time she was seven, and thought that a dive into the theory of Potions was just the thing to relegate Ron to the rear of her mind.

Hermione managed to duck into the Restricted Section without having to greet any carefree students, and was almost immediately sucked into a whirlpool of research. She was gloriously busy, and it calmed her, but she still had to cast a temporary Water Resistance spell on the books she was using, so that no one could say Hermione Granger's tears had ever besmirched a book.

* * *

Fleur frowned down the high table, and turned to Malfoy. "Where ees 'ermione?"

The Potions Master shook his head, and indicated that he could answer that question only when he had swallowed. A few seconds later, he said, "She was going to meet Weasley-her Weasley, not Potter's-for breakfast this morning. I imagine they... ugh, even the thought makes me sick." Malfoy cradled his head in his hands.

Fleur wrinkled her nose in distaste, and picked an imaginary speck of lint from her robes. He was not right for her, too crude. And how could he be happy with her when he had to be aware that most of what she said went over his head? No, they would not do at all.

* * *

At quarter past three, Hermione was still in the library, but she had given up reading. Slumped against a wall, sure that no students could come by, she let her tears fall freely.

A soft cough interrupted her solitary misery. She looked up through swollen eyes and let her head fall again. Perfect.

Fleur was not sure what had happened to put the girl in such a state, but from what Malfoy had said, it had something to do with the youngest Weasley boy. Clearly Hermione was none too pleased to see her, but she couldn't just walk away. She sat down, careful not to let her flowing skirt get tangled in her legs.

"'ermione? What ees wrong?"

"Please, go away." Hermione's voice was a whisper.

"What ees wrong?"

Hermione stared blankly at the books on the wall before her. "I envy you."

Fleur could not see what this had to do with anything. "Me?"

"You're so calm, so sure. _You_ always know you're wanted." Hermione could hear that she sounded like a child, but was powerless to stop it. "Everybody falls all over themselves trying to please you."

What to say to this fragile young woman, whom she barely knew? Fleur could have listed her troubles, berated the other woman for not seeing that she was not the only unhappy one, that being a Veela didn't guarantee real affection. However, she realized that Hermione spoke from grief, and she allowed for it. She spoke slowly and carefully, trying to sound sincere without overstepping the bounds of their casual relationship. "You are very eemportant to very many people. You guide ze students. You are a hero to a great many also. You 'ave very much love."

Hermione's head snapped around to look at her. "Love? What do I know about love? I couldn't even keep a relationship going with the man who's been in love with me since he was eleven!"

Ah. Everything became clear. It had been not just a fight, then, but a separation. Without considering the potential consequences, Fleur reached out and hugged the younger woman.

Hermione had thrown off her robes, and her shoulders were warm through her blouse. Her cheek was icy from her crying. She stiffened when Fleur's arms fell about her-half dislike of being touched (a souvenir from the war) and half mistrust of Fleur-but relaxed ever so slowly into the embrace. Her tears had stopped, but now they came again.

Fleur looked totally serene. Her hair was coming out of its braid, falling over her eyes. In the same situation, Hermione would have made a fool of herself trying to blow it out of the way, but Fleur let it alone and looked no less elegant for being a little less than perfect. Pale hair brushed a pale face, in which were set pale eyes. The woman should have looked like a corpse, especially since she rarely wore any expression other than one of cool disdain. Instead she looked like an angel.

_One of the benefits of being a Veela, I suppose,_ Hermione thought with that brand of resigned resentment peculiar to those women who have spent their whole life being told how plain they are. Aware of her ingratitude, Hermione cursed herself for having such unkind thoughts about a woman who was clearly trying to make Hermione feel better. Even if that woman was stunningly beautiful and unnaturally cold.

Hermione stopped crying a few minutes later, and Fleur released her. Hermione, preoccupied, did not notice the reluctance accompanying the movement.

In halting phrases and fragments, Hermione explained what had happened. Fleur nodded occasionally, but otherwise gave no sign that she was listening. When Hermione wound down, Fleur got to her feet and offered Hermione her hand. It was but cautiously accepted, and dropped like a hot potato when Hermione stood on her own two feet. Fleur only smiled.

As the two women left the Restricted Section, they received curious glances from the few students studious enough to be in the library on a Saturday. A sixth-year Ravenclaw looked about to comment on Hermione's tear-stained face, but Fleur cut her off with a look while Hermione's head was turned away.

Draco Malfoy, who was coming into the library as they left it, noted what an odd pair they made. Fleur was dressed in black from head to toe, but betraying no sorrow, while Hermione, clearly miserable, was wearing a pleasant outfit in warm colours. He thought about asking after his colleague, but he was no more immune to Fleur's stony eyes than the Ravenclaw had been.

They went separate ways in the corridor, not speaking as Hermione went left and Fleur turned right, but before they parted company, Hermione lifted her hand as if to touch Fleur, and let it drop again. She smiled self-consciously and turned away.

* * *

A/N: I had initially planned for Ron and Hermione's breakup to be calm and measured, a mutual decision for the betterment of both, but I thought Ron the sort to lash out when he's angry, and even Hermione gets irrational when she's annoyed. There you have it.


	5. Empty

A/N: I feel a tiny bit bad that this is as short as it is, but then, this is theoretically a series of drabbles.

A few hours do not make two people fast friends. Hermione knew that. Despite what Marianne Dashwood believes, it is very rare that even a few days are sufficient to make anyone really intimate with anyone else. Hermione was not a fool, and she was not the hopeless romantic that many other girls were and delighted in being. She was a practical woman.

In spite of that, she could not shake the feeling that she had gained something intangible while Fleur was sitting with her in the library, something that lingered even now.

For just a little while, she had wanted nothing more to fall asleep there, surrounded by lithe limbs and the smell of old books.

For just a little while, she would have told Fleur anything she wanted to know, and done anything she wanted done.

For just a little while, she had been able to be rational about and almost indifferent to the probable end of not merely a romance, but also a friendship.

Now Fleur sat a few feet away from her, but the distance was as wide as if she had been halfway around the world. That marvelous feeling of belonging was gone, leaving Hermione feeling tired and empty.


	6. Lies

When Fleur came to Hogwarts as a student of Beauxbatons, she could not help but notice Harry Potter's friend with the bushy hair, especially when that irritating little girl showed up at the Yule Ball as the beautiful young woman on Viktor Krum's arm. She had asked a group of Hogwarts girls about Hermione, and had been told that she was what exactly she seemed, a bossy, pretentious, arrogant snot, who was tolerated only because of her association with the Boy-Who-Lived, whom she was shamelessly trying to seduce.

Fleur prided herself on being observant, but now, years later, she was beginning to discover that she had misinterpreted every sign about the girl.

Part of this was the fault of Beauxbatons. Most of the girls were happy there, and Fleur enjoyed the classes, but being a Veela is not a ticket to popularity among members of your own gender, even in a unisex school, and Fleur's experiences with other girls had convinced her that they were, with a very few exceptions, scheming harpies who turned on each other for the slightest personal gain. When she heard the same thing about Hermione, she was not surprised and had no reason to disbelieve it. Girls seek out celebrities for their status, not their personal charms, and just because Rita Skeeter had printed something didn't make it false.

Now she saw that it had all been false. All right, everything but the bossy bit. That was still true. But everything else.

Hermione was terribly strong and somehow also terribly fragile. She had survived fighting on the front lines of a war against the deadliest wizard the world had ever known, and she had successfully obtained a number of previously unheard of rights and privileges for centaurs and other non-human magical beings. Yet Hermione's monologue, which touched upon much more than her relationship with Ron, had revealed a host of insecurities.

Fleur felt a sudden surge of self-loathing. With all the eyes on the girl, including hers, how could she-how could everyone?-have missed the loneliness in those eyes? Dominique had been tormented before her mother removed her from public life, and Fleur herself... Her eyes fluttered closed as she remembered.

_Madame, Fleur pinched me._

_Fleur cheated on that test! I saw her!_

_Mme. Maxine, you put too much faith in that girl. She'll only bite the hand that feeds her._

_Make friends with Fleur? Don't bother. She doesn't care for anyone else._

She, too, had believed the lies.


	7. Bones

It was seven o'clock at Hogwarts, and Fleur had just come from her bedroom to find that her daughter had evidently been awake for some time.

"Come 'ere, Dominique. I will brush your 'air." Fleur spared a moment to wish that she could speak in French. Her children could all hold a conversation in the language, but Gabrielle had gently suggested that since the family was living in the United Kingdom, it might be better to attempt to accommodate their first language. When Fleur took her family to visit their aunt in France, Gabrielle insisted that her husband and son try to speak English to the visitors. Every time, Fleur told her this was unnecessary. Every time, Gabrielle shrugged and said (in French), "They need the practice, anyway."

Gabrielle's husband was German, and she had seen him ridiculed for his accent. She herself had had bad experiences in England. Fleur knew the feeling, but it was one of the few sorts of mockery that rolled off of her back, and she did not see that speaking French to children of French descent would do them so much harm. To please Gabrielle, and because she suspected Victoire appreciated it as well, Fleur tried.

Dominique stood in front of her mother's chair while Fleur ran a brush through the wavy locks. It was more a symbolic than a practical practice; Dominique had shyly asked, and Fleur had reluctantly given, permission to cut her hair short. It stopped immediately below her ears, giving her a fey appearance.

To be more accurate, it contributed to a previously existing impression. Dominique was a tiny child, with none of her parents' height, and was painfully thin. Her eyes were brown, like her father's, but one came to know this only after long acquaintance with the girl, who kept her face towards the ground as much as possible. A sharp nose and pointed chin contributed to the delicacy of her features.

This odd facial structure, as well as her habit of wearing all black in imitation of her mother, was one of the reasons she had had trouble with bullies.

Fleur set her brush down. "Zer. Now I am going to write a letter to Gabrielle and your brother and sister. Is zer anything you wish to tell zem?"

Dominique considered gravely. At last she answered, "If you will, tell Loius that if he comes to see us at Christmas, he will get to see a hippogriff." Her mother promised to record this faithfully. "Maman, may I go out?"

"Do not leave ze castle." Fleur bent her head to her letter, and Dominique slipped out of the portrait hole.

* * *

Hermione was strolling through the halls at a leisurely pace, on her way to the first class of the day. She had finished her research paper the night before, and she felt better than she had since that fateful day in Diagon Alley. She was perhaps more intent on self-gratulation than was wise, for she was not minding her surroundings as she ought, and bumped into someone.

Apologizing profusely, Hermione helped Dominique from the floor. She felt worse because the waif had always seemed to her likely to break if one looked at her the wrong way. A fall certainly wouldn't do her any good. "I really didn't hurt you? Is there anything I can do for you?"

Dominique nodded. Hermione waited for her orders. "May I speak to you after your first class?"

Surprised at the request, Hermione nodded.

* * *

"Professor Granger, can I ask you about that last example?"

"Of course, but I can only give you a minute today."

She explained the flaw in the boy's calculations and sent him off with a note to Professor Malfoy, begging his pardon for the tardiness. Unfortunately, it took longer than anticipated, and she had no time to speak with Dominique before the next class.

Mercifully, no one in that class needed her aid. Stepping into her office to set her book down before she went to lunch, Hermione found Dominique waiting. "What can I do for you?" She tried to sound upbeat, but her third years were exhausting, and it came out as discourteous. Dominique didn't seem to mind, but she had her mother's talent for hiding emotions.

"I want to show you something." From a pocket in her robes, which constantly swirled about her and had a tendency to make her look like a comic miniature Snape, Dominique produced a crimson bag containing things that rattled and clacked together. Hermione, who jingled incessantly if she walked around with two Knuts in her pocket, wondered how the girl could come and go so silently.

Dominique poured the contents of her bag onto Hermione's desk. Hermione, who had taken a Comparative Anatomy and Physiology course, among others, at a magical university in Belgium, recognized the gleaming white objects immediately. "Dragon bones?"

Dominique spread her hands over them in a way that communicated perfectly, _obviously_. Hermione gazed down at them in admiration. They were the largest set of fingerbones she'd ever encountered. Where had Fleur-for surely she would know if her daughter possessed something of the sort-gotten such beautiful specimens?

"My uncle gave them to me," came the soft answer to a question Hermione hadn't voiced.

"Your mother has a brother?"

Dominique looked at her as though she were a mildly interesting breed of crazy person. Hermione considered taking offense, but decided that anything was better than her previous inscrutability or her mother's disdain. "My mother has a sister. My father had five brothers."

Oh. _But..._ "You...see your father's brothers often?"

The mingled sorrow and affection on Dominique's face pierced Hermione's heart. "Only one. He works with dragons."

Hermione's eyebrows climbed to her hairline and kept on going. "Charlie comes to see you?" Dominique assented.

_I'll bet Molly Weasley doesn't know about that!_

It made sense when she thought about it. Bill and Charlie had been close. If Fleur had stayed in touch with any member of the Weasley family, it would have been Charlie.

"I see. You were going to tell me something about these?"

"They told me something about you."

A chill crept down Hermione's spine. A sad, shy little girl, too easily injured to be away from her mother. A sad, shy little girl who carried dragon bones in her pocket.

The most brilliant witch of her age was connecting the mental dots, and she didn't like the picture that was forming. "About me?"

"Yes." Hermione waited, but Dominique seemed content not to speak. "And?" she prompted.

Dominique rearranged the bones with her fingertips. "You are wrong about the world." And she scooped her bones back into the bag and left the room without another word.

* * *

When Hermione went down to lunch, Fleur was there, but Dominique's spot was empty. She was glad of it. More interesting than Dominique's cryptic message was the fact that she had delivered it at all.

_A seer. _

Sybil Trelawney had her moments, but this was on a different level. Real, full time seers found it hard to live in society, because they were forever learning secrets and predicting futures that no one wanted known. _No wonder I thought the poor kid was being abused._ She was, but not by her mother. Fate had chewed her up and spat her out, and there was nothing she could do about it, save stay with her mother, who could shield her at least a little from the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.

Hermione had new respect for both the child and Fleur. Bringing up three children alone had to be enough work without bringing fortunetelling into the mix.

In the grand tradition of teachers who have just taken an interest in a new subject, Hermione changed her lesson plan. She threw out the history passage she had been planning to make her Ancient Runes fifth years translate, giving them a passage on religious divination, instead. She hadn't read the text herself, and wouldn't have time unless she made it part of her school work.

* * *

Fleur greeted the students she would be tutoring. She had expanded from Arithmancy to Ancient Runes, and today there seemed to be a lot of fifth years. Scanning the passage they were reading, she was not so simple as to write off the topic as mere coincidence. After dinner that night, she called Dominique to her.

"Did you talk to anybody today, cherie? When you went out?"

Dominique nodded, but offered no further information. This had bemused Hermione, but Fleur was accustomed to her daughter's reticence.

"Who?"

"Professor Granger."

Fleur muttered something in French, lowering her voice so that her daughter could not hear. "I thought so."

Hermione might be lonely, she might be hurt, but she was also an unknown factor, and Fleur did not like those.

"What did you say to 'er?"

Dominique smiled enigmatically, and Fleur bit her lip until she tasted blood. There was nothing that could be done now, except stop it from happening again. And talk to Granger.

"Dominique..." She sighed. She could not forbid the child to say who she was. The damage that would do far outweighed the benefits, or she would have done it before. The last thing Dominique needed was yet another person telling her that she should not be herself.

The second objective, though...

* * *

Hermione was in her office grading papers when she heard a tap on the door. She went over and opened it, stepping back to allow Fleur entrance. "Hello. I didn't expect to see you tonight."

Fleur did not return the greeting. "If you 'urt my daughter, I will kill you."

Hermione froze for a minute, and then exhaled loudly. "I believe it. But I don't have any intention of hurting your daughter."

"What did she say to you?" Fleur demanded.

Hermione looked surprised. "She didn't tell you?"

"No."

Hermione shrugged. "It's not a secret. She told me I was wrong about everything."

Fleur's shoulders relaxed, and Hermione knew what she was thinking. Dominique's statement was rude, yes, but not incriminating, not something only a seer would say.

Hermione sighed. If she didn't disabuse Fleur now, the woman would be angrier later, when she realized that Hermione had known Dominique's secret for some time. "She showed me the dragon bones."

In the blink of an eye, Fleur was once again stretched tighter than a drum, but she didn't threaten Hermione. She simply said, "Merde," a word Hermione would have recognized even without her days at the Parisian Magical Institute.

That was enough. No need to mention Charlie.

"I promise you," Hermione said gently, "I will protect your daughter as I would my own. I promise you that."

She didn't know why she'd said it. It was melodramatic and arrogant. What right did she have to claim a share of the child? Still, she couldn't bring herself to regret it. She knew what it was like to be alone.

Fleur met her eyes, but there was none of the challenge usually present. "Thank you," she said, and the tenuous connection that had formed in the library stretched between them.

Hermione looked down and shuffled the papers on her desk. "You're welcome," she said.


	8. Judgmental, much?

A/N: Just to clarify something that reviewers have mentioned, Fleur's children are not old enough to go to Hogwarts, so Victoire and Louise are staying with their aunt. Dominique, who needs close watching and hates to be away from her mother, is staying at Hogwarts.

By the way, you may have noticed that these are long and interconnected, and do not really fit the definition of drabbles. This is not my fault. A plot sprang at me from the shadows, and I had to write an actual story.

* * *

Hermione had been avoiding Ron, for obvious reasons, but she had kept in contact with Ginny, her closest girlfriend, so she wasn't too surprised when Ginny wrote asking permission to floo over for a visit in the first week of December. She replied naming a date and time.

Ginny came on Sunday afternoon, fifteen minutes late because she had stopped to look around the castle. "Just think," she gushed, "James will be here soon." She beamed, and Hermione grinned back, politely not mentioning that it would be several years before James came to Hogwarts.

"But I haven't come here to talk about children," Ginny said briskly, getting down to business. "Let's talk about Christmas."

_Hurrah._

"We want you at the Burrow. Even Mum, and you know how she gets about Ronniekins." Hermione, who had vivid memories of Rita-Skeeter-induced tiny chocolate eggs, grimaced in agreement.

"But really, Ginny, I don't think I will."

Ginny shrugged it off. "Knowing Ron, he was being a prat. Maybe you should take some of the blame, too, maybe not. It doesn't matter. We're not going to make you talk to him, but we want you there."

"I'm not family," Hermione said feebly.

Ginny snorted. "Like Hell you're not. And Harry will be upset if you don't come."

Ginny was famed for her tenacity--Ron and Harry seemed to think that this was a result of growing up with several older brothers, but Hermione was inclined to put it down to her nature--and there seemed to be no escape. "Do you promise I don't have to talk to Ron?"

"I promise."

"All right then."

Having achieved her primary objective, Ginny was perfectly happy to move on, and they chatted comfortably until Hermione blundered, mentioning "Fleur's lessons."

Ginny's eyes narrowed. "Phlegm? She's here?"

Hermione realized her mistake too late. She had assumed that Neville had told the Weasley family about Fleur's current place of employment and Mrs. Weasley, interested in the children but not the mother, had thought it futile to act upon the information. In retrospect, she should have known better. Molly Weasley would not let any lead escape her notice. _Poor Neville. He was probably scared he'd be caught in the crossfire._

"She teaches Defense against the Dark Arts," Hermione admitted reluctantly. "She's good at it, too."

"She's been here since September? And she didn't come to see us? Mum's going to be furious! Why didn't you tell us?"

"Perhaps," Hermione said wearily, "because I knew your mum would be furious."

"Fair enough." Ginny grinned briefly, and then it vanished in her righteous indignation. "She thinks she can keep the kids away from us forever? That's horrible!"

Much to her own surprise, for she had always sided with the Weasleys on this particular issue, Hermione found herself angry on Fleur's behalf. "Judgmental much?"

Ginny stared. "You think it's right, what she did?"

"She's had a hard life, Ginny. Her husband dies, his family's never liked her--don't look at me like it's not true--and for all she knows, her mother-in-law's going to try to take her children."

Ginny seemed about to argue, but Hermione cut her off. "Can you honestly swear your mother wouldn't have tried it?"

Ginny could not. Both women knew that, under certain circumstances, Mrs. Weasley might have ripped Bill's children away from his widow without a hint of remorse.

"Just tell me, Hermione? Are they all right?"

"I wouldn't have concealed them from you if I didn't think they were all right in their present situation."

Ginny looked dubious, so Hermione added, "She was a good wife, and she's a good mother. The fact that she doesn't want her mother-in-law around is your problem and hers, not the kids'. You might need them, but they don't need you." Hermione was shocked to find that she believed it.

Ginny drained the last few drops of liquid from her teacup. "You usually know what you're talking about, Hermione, so I'll give Fleur the benefit of the doubt."

The clocks of Hogwarts chimed five, and Ginny got up to go, saying that poor Harry was probably going mad, dealing with his mischievous children alone. Hermione bid her farewell. She had things to think about, not least among them her own change in perspective.

Ginny, too, was thinking hard. She had to tell her mother what she had learned, there was no question about that, but it could wait. Before she judged Fleur, she would do something, which Hermione would have supported: gather data. As soon as she got home, Ginny apologized to Harry and told him that he was going to have to watch the kids for a half an hour more. In her study, surrounded by Quidditch statistics and notes, Ginny began a letter.

_Dear Hannah..._


	9. Why in the world would you do that?

For forty-eight hours after Ginny's visit, Hermione was unusually crabby and impatient. She had thought she could use her parents' invitation down as an excuse to avoid the Weasleys, but dearest, darlingest Mum and Dad had chosen this year, of all times, to leave the country for warmer parts. Hermione knew she was going to be forced to grin and bear Ron's sullen silence, Harry's well-intentioned attempts to effect a reconciliation, and Mrs. Weasley's disapproving sniffs every time Hermione walked into the room. She knew it, and by God she was going to spread the misery to everyone around her.

It was, oddly enough, Malfoy who snapped her out of it. He hauled her aside after a staff meeting and snarled, "What the Hell is going on?"

Hermione glared. "Get off of me, Malfoy!"

"Uh-uh. We need to talk."

Hermione folded her arms defiantly.

"I don't care what personal troubles you have. I'm guessing the Weasleys are your problem, and you know how I feel about them.

"I do, however, care about my students. You made Christine Bovarak cry yesterday. Do you know how hard it is to make a Slytherin cry?"

Hermione looked down, ashamed, and Draco loosened his death grip on her arm, aware that he was getting through.

""I'm the last person to tell you you should be all sweetness and light, but the kids love you, and it's not fair to them to take whatever this is out on them."

Hermione's long face demonstrated ample remorse to soften Draco's heart. "I know. I'll make it right."

And she did, apologizing to the students she had terrified, returning House points, rescinding detentions, and generally trying to make amends. Had she not been the beloved Professor Granger, she might never have been wholly forgiven, but her students were universally fond of her, and it was public knowledge that her ex-boyfriend's sister had recently been to see her. Within a week, her irritability was forgotten.

Having been saved from making herself enemies among her pupils by the one person she would have called a true expert on alienation, Hermione enjoyed the rest of the month as much as she could, considering the holiday waiting at the end.

Hermione was to leave Hogwarts on the morning of the 23rd. On the afternoon of the 22nd, she had finished grading, but not yet started packing, and was strolling around the grounds. She came across Fleur, wearing a long black coat and scarf over pants and snow boots.

This sort of meeting was not an uncommon occurrence, for both women took the same path by the lake around the same time of day, almost every day. Hermione hailed Fleur and, when invited, fell into step beside her.

Fleur inquired as to Hermione's plans for the break. Blushing from the remembrance of the last time she and Fleur had discussed the Weasleys, Hermione said, "I'm going to the Burrow. What about you?"

"I 'ave sent Dominique ahead to Gabrielle. Tomorrow I will join zem."

"Do you always spend Christmas with your sister?"

"Sometimes we go up to visit... Forgive me, I felt faint. We go up to visit... My 'ead... We go up to visit our parents." The pair took another step, and Fleur collapsed in the snow.

Hermione gasped, kneeling beside the prone figure and rolling her over. She sent her Patronus up to warn Hannah that someone needed the Hospital Wing, and Levitated Fleur above the path.

* * *

Hannah sighed ruefully. "I know this sounds selfish, but I was going to go home for Christmas. Neville's gran was going to come, and my parents were going to join us."

"You just spent five hours tending her. I don't think she'd begrudge you a wish to be at home for Christmas," Hermione said gently. She did feel for Hannah, who worked hard all year and was being prevented from celebration by a last-minute patient. Oh, the irony. Hannah wanted to leave, but couldn't, and she wanted to stay, but must go.

A thought struck Hermione. "Hannah," she said slowly, "what does she have?"

"Nothing serious," Hannah reassured her. "It's just exhaustion. She's been working herself too hard on that potion."

"Potion?"

"She's been working on a way to inhibit visions. Malfoy's letting her use his supplies."

Hermione gaped at the woman on the bed. Her mint green gown looked odd, considering her usual attire. _"If you 'urt my daughter..."  
_

"Hannah, how skilled is the care she needs?"

'Oh, it's not hard. Anyone could do it. It's just that I'm the only one who has time."

"I have time."

"I don't follow you."

"Go home, Hannah, you deserve it. I can stay here and take care of her."

Hannah's eyes lit up, and then her face fell into its former melancholy. "The Weasleys are expecting you."

_I should've known Ginny would tell her. _"She needs me more than they do, and I really don't want to see Ron, anyway."

Hannah didn't seem to think that Hermione ought to cancel her trip to the Burrow, but her desire to see her family proved stronger than her concern for Molly Weasley's feelings.

"This," Hannah said, "is Dareoris's Draught."

* * *

Hermione had written a letter to Ginny, dancing around the rim of the reason for her failure to arrive, but she never got a chance to send it. When she came back to her rooms from breakfast Ginny was perched in her couch. Soot on the floor betrayed her entrance point.

When Hermione came in, Ginny smiled widely, but her eyes were steely. "Hermione."

"Good to see you, Ginny. What brings you here?"

"I heard something from Hannah, which, if it is true, I should have heard from you." Ginny's mouth was thinner than ever McGonagall's had been.

Hermione seized her unsent letter from the coffee table and brandished it at her friend. Ginny snatched it and read it through.

She didn't look any happier when she had finished. "This doesn't say _why_ you're staying away. Hannah says it's because Phlegm is sick. Is that right?"

Hermione didn't answer, but her silence was as damning as any vocal affirmative.

"Why in the world would you do that?"

Hermione tried to explain her more altruistic motives, which she didn't quite understand herself. She did as well as could be expected. "Fleur is sick because she was trying to create a potion enabling her daughter...to have a somewhat normal life. I didn't think Hannah should be away from her family because Fleur wants the world to be a better place for _her_ family.

"Besides, I...admire her. Fleur. I honestly don't think there's anything she wouldn't do for her children, especially Dominique. She was foolish to work herself so hard, but she shouldn't suffer because she cares about her daughter."

Ginny looked at her thoughtfully, and said at last, "I think I see." Ginny Potter saw very well, much better than Hermione in fact, though tact and a desire to see this generous impulse run its course kept her silent on that point.

Ginny left a few minutes later, after promising Hermione that she would not tell Ron or Mrs. Weasley the reason for Hermione's absence.

* * *

Fleur's care was not difficult. Hermione fell into a rhythm.

She got up, ate breakfast, and gave the delirious Fleur her first dose of medicine, along with fluids through an IV (something Hannah had introduced, having heard about it in Muggle Studies). Then she wrote a letter, ostensibly to Gabrielle, but really directed at Dominique, who had not been happy to hear that she could not go to her mother. This letter's purpose was simply to keep them informed about Fleur's progress, which was rapid. She sat by Fleur's bedside, refining her lesson plans for the next term, or went for a walk. After lunch, she read aloud from _Les Miserables_ in the original French. Once again, her time at university came in handy. She liked to think that Fleur could understand, though it seemed unlikely.

On Christmas, Hermione brought food from the feast to Fleur's room and ate there. She was not one for noisy merriment, so this was as much for her sake as Fleur's.

Fleur woke up on Boxing Day, and was sitting up by the evening of the 27th. Hannah returned, but Hermione insisted on staying to help.

Fleur was still weak, and needed help moving up from her fully horizontal position. Hermione rolled up her sleeves to get them out of the way, and was about to take hold of Fleur's shoulders when she saw where the patient's eyes were: on her heavily scarred arms. Uncomfortable with the odd look in Fleur's eyes, Hermione quickly rolled her sleeves back down and went on with her task. Fleur said nothing about what she had seen.

Even tired and woozy, Fleur was a good conversationalist. She did not seem to want to talk about why she was working on her potion, and Hermione never broached the subject, but Fleur loved to discuss the science of it. Hannah was not thrilled to hear Fleur explaining the project that had put her in the Hospital Wing, but the topic brightened her patient's day, so she let it be.

On the 29th, Fleur interrupted a conversation about the effects of different amounts of lacewing flies to say, "'annah says I may leave the 'ospital Wing tomorrow."

Hermione glanced at the Healer, hovering unobtrusively in the background, for confirmation. "That's wonderful."

It was. Why was she not entirely pleased?

The next day, Hermione came into the room just as Fleur was changing in real clothes. She was doing the side buttons on a black blouse. Her fingers were as nimble as ever, and she was done by the time Hermione reached her side.

Watching Fleur walk out of the Hospital Wing under her own power, Hermione felt her chest tighten. There went the conversation, the reading aloud, the quiet. There went that nagging feeling again, the deceptive appearance of intimacy. There went the most interesting woman Hermione had ever met.


	10. Marked

She had never worn short sleeves, whether she was in robes or informal attire. Now Fleur knew why.

When she had thought about it in passing, in the context of trying to remember how Hermione had looked at the Yule Ball, she had always assumed Hermione's arms would be smooth and flawless, and only as pale as her face.

They had been pure white, like they hadn't seen the sun in a long time, and crisscrossing scars ran all up and down their lengths, as though a long knife had sliced to the bone again and again.

It had crossed her mind that Hermione might have inflicted the wounds on herself, but she dismissed the idea. Hermione was very strongly alive, if nothing else. She was the type who struck out at her problems, not at herself.

The only possible conclusion, to which Fleur could come, was that Hermione had been tortured. As the Defense against the Dark Arts teacher, Fleur could think of several spells that would taint a blade and make its bite excruciatingly painful. Only one that she knew of also made the wounds impossible to heal by magical means. That spell, _Gladius occidens_, or "killing sword", was currently under consideration for classification as the fourth Unforgivable, because it was just as painful as the Cruciatus and often led to death.

On a hunch, Fleur looked in her _Encyclopedia of Modern Spellwork_, which talked about spells that had been created or modified in the twentieth or twenty-first centuries. This latest edition gave the sponsors of Bill 25017 as Harry Potter and Percy Weasley.

Two years ago, Fleur had been in London, minding her business, when she had heard talk of war hero Hermione Granger. Mildly curious to hear about the girl so closely linked to the Weasleys, Fleur had lingered and heard, "They say she was trapped with him for three days. They say he marked her."

The following details were sensational rather than believable, and Fleur had taken the whole thing as a baseless rumor. Now, however, she wondered if it might not have contained a grain of truth.

It made her wonder how Hermione could converse so easily with Malfoy, whose father had been one of her deadliest enemies, maybe even the one who had inflicted the knife wounds. That took a level of forgiveness that Fleur herself did not possess, and found hard to imagine.

But then, that was the story of Hermione Granger, wasn't it? Smarter, tougher, and kinder than Fleur could ever hope to be. The fact that Hermione managed, without the aid of any Veela blood, to captivate everyone around her, and was somehow totally unaware of it, just added to Fleur's astonishment.

What she wished Hermione could see was that the pearly streaks of scar tissue symbolized all of that power, and all of that hope. Harry Potter's scar told the wizarding world that the war against Voldemort could be won. Hermione Granger's scars said that the war against Muggleborns could be over.


	11. Amethyst

Under pressure from the Head Girl, a hopeless romantic, McGonagall had consented to hold a New Year's Eve Ball from eight o'clock on the 31st of December to one in the morning the day after, for the many students who had remained at Hogwarts over the holidays. The older teachers wanted nothing to do with this, so the burden of supervising the project fell on the new members of the staff.

Well, in theory, anyway. But Malfoy was terrifying, Delacour was distant, and Longbottom was clueless. The only thing for the Prefects to do was approach Professor Granger.

While in the Hospital Wing, caring for Fleur, she had only been able to offer ideas, but her colleague was up and about again, and the morning before the dance saw Hermione hurrying to and fro, arranging flowers, levitating candles, and trying to do everything at once. By noon, her hair was flying every-which-way, she was breathing hard, and her robes were covered in silver glitter from the decorations. Seeing this, Roselyn Werth, the Head Girl, "suggested" that her Head of House go rest. Hermione protested, but Roselyn was confident in her position, and Hermione found herself locked out of the Great Hall with orders not to return a minute before eight.

On her way back to her rooms, Hermione came face-to-face with Fleur, whom she hadn't talked to since the Hospital Wing. She uttered a short greeting and was about to walk away, when Fleur said, "I was looking for you, 'ermione. I 'ave something to give you."

"Oh?" Hermione, who had secretly been looking forward to a nap, braced herself for a note from McGonagall, asking her to do something else that no one else wanted to deal with.

Fleur saw this stiffening and interpreted it correctly. Hermione, who was looking wearily down at the ground, didn't see her purse her lips in displeasure. Fleur had often expressed to the Headmistress her belief that some of Hermione's duties should be forcibly removed from her.

"It's not work, zo I would ask you to give me a minute to explain it."

"Of course."

It was clear that Hermione had to sit down or she would go the way of pre-Christmas Fleur, so Fleur conjured two armchairs. They were blocking the corridor, but everyone was either outside or in the Great Hall, so it didn't matter. "Sit."

Hermione sat.

"My grandmuzzer lived in rural France. She was one of ze few Veelas of the time who lived among humans. Ze magical town she lived in was full of peasants. She-"

Hermione interrupted with something Fleur didn't catch.

"Sorry?"

"I said, you can speak in French. I understand it well, though my speech could use some work."

Fleur stared at her colleague, wondering if Hermione had any idea how happy it made her to be allowed to tell the story in her grandmother's language. She continued in French.

"She lived among peasants, as I said. She was happy there, I believe, and she could have accepted any number of proposals, but she was very intelligent and she longed for an education, so she went to the city.

"There she met a young man, Jacque Camus. He was captivated by her beauty, as were all of her other suitors, but unlike the wizards, he did not know why, and he mistook his infatuation for love. My grandmother believed him when he said he would love and cherish her always. She married him."

"He was...weak, and he lost all of his money gambling. My grandmother had to dance to support them both. While she was dancing, she met a young wizard, Louis, who had come to the city for much the same reason she had. He was a wizard, and his mother was a Veela.

"Sons of Veelas are not naturally handsome, and Louis was only moderately good-looking, but he had inherited, as do all our male descendants, immunity to our bewitchment. He fell in love with my grandmother because she was sweet, and kind, and intelligent. He did not care about her looks.

"He wanted to have a life with her, but divorce was not a possibility for my grandmother. Her husband would have killed her had she tried. So, not wanting to arouse Jacque's suspicions, but desiring to give his love a physical symbol of his promise to leave with her whenever she could get away, Louis gave her an amethyst bracelet, which she told Jacque had been her mother's. He wanted to pawn it, but she refused. She wore it always.

"All was well until Jacque came home early from his temporary job as a shop worker, and found Louis waiting for my grandmother to come home. He came to the right conclusion, and attacked with a knife. Louis was too surprised to even reach for his wand.

"My grandmother came home and...became angry. She transformed. In the end, she killed Jacque and fled the city, taking with her nothing but the amethyst bracelet and Louis's daughter in her womb. Wearing that bracelet, she faced single motherhood, a famine, a plague, and another discovery by a Muggle.

"She wore it for a long time. She considered it a symbol of all the hardships she had endured, and a symbol of determination and perseverance.

"When she was very old, she gave it to my mother, who was going away, but she could not wear it, because when she did, she said she heard screaming. She gave it to me, and I tried it on." Fleur shuddered. "It was the same for me. Intermittent sobbing, screaming. It would be silent for days, and then suddenly the sounds began again. My sister cannot wear it, and neither can either of my daughters.

"We told my grandmother, but she insisted it was not cursed. She said it was a reminder.

"My mother did not think that my grandmother heard the sounds, but I thought she heard them and chose to wear it anyway. She explained that, according to her understanding, it screamed only for those who are in danger of forgetting. My mother, me, even Dominique, we have not lived through enough.

"I know that it seems odd to give a gift with such a history, but I give it in the spirit my grandmother wore it. Did you know amethyst symbolizes peace? Of course you did. My grandmother, who lived through so much violence, loved peace, and she named her daughter, my mother, Salome, from the Hebrew idea of _shalom_."

Fleur laughed oddly. "I don't usually talk so much, but I wanted you to understand. Thank you for your care while I was in the hospital." She pulled a packet of tissue paper from her robes and handed it to Hermione, who pulled the layers aside to reveal a single amethyst, around which were the ancient runes for "light in darkness."

This was a gift far greater than she deserved for her few days of aid, but she understood that Fleur was trying to say something. It hit her-_a frightened prankster, scarred arms, hard eyes_-and the feeling she had been trying for so long to pin down crept up on her again. "Je ne sais pas comment vous remercier."

Fleur met her eyes and switched to English. Since she had just come from French, her accent was thicker. "Eet does not suit me."

Hermione stood, Fleur stood, the armchairs vanished. Fleur gestured past Hermione. "'ello, Professor Flitwick, I was on my way to ze Great 'all right now." She brushed past Hermione, leaving the fresh smell of newly mown grass (her shampoo, though Hermione would not discover this for some time) lingering in the air.


	12. Moonlight

Hermione awoke from her sleep at five o'clock in the evening and read until seven. Then she was obliged to put down her book, leave off stroking Crookshanks, the grumpy old codger (How long did Kneazles live?), and prepare for the dance.

She put on her dress and did her hair. When she finished the latter chore, it was almost time to go downstairs. Donning her gloves, Hermione caught sight of Fleur's gift.

Should she wear it? By a happy coincidence, it went very well with her outfit, and it would be polite to show her appreciation. But. The story behind it was not inviting.

Hermione shook off her morbid train of thought. Fleur wouldn't give her anything dangerous on purpose, and surely a Defense against the Dark Arts teacher could identify a cursed object. She decided to wear it over one of her gloves.

This was a good plan, but Fate is a fickle bitch, and it was not to be. The bracelet was too small to fit over the glove. Hermione was about to put the bracelet down and forget about it, when she was suddenly furious. Why should she have to hide? Hermione made her decision.

* * *

The dance began promptly at eight, and most of the students arrived in the thirty minutes following the opening of the doors. At five past, Fleur was standing to the side of the hall, watching them stream in.

She had been permitted to attend the dance, but was not allowed to leave Hogwarts. Hannah, usually quite mild, had been very clear on this point. This had put Fleur in a bad mood all afternoon, and she was not bursting with joy in the evening, either. That is, not until Hermione appeared, silhouetted against the light from the outside corridor.

Malfoy, coming up beside Fleur, murmured to himself, "She doth teach the torches to shine bright."

Had either Hermione or Fleur heard him, she would have known exactly what to say in response to that. Specifically, Hermione would have commented on the fact that Shakespeare was a Muggle, and Fleur, who would not have recognized the reference, would have pointed out that tonight the Great Hall was lit not by torches, but by starlight from the enchanted ceiling, since floating candles had not seemed to fit in with the general atmosphere. Hermione, however, was not in earshot, and Fleur had other things on her mind.

Simply put, Hermione was breathtaking. Her dress was dove grey, but the moonlight pouring over the scene painted everything, including the gown, silver. Her hair had been pulled back from her face, revealing large eyes and high cheekbones. And, oh, Hermione's arms! Her arms were totally bare, except for a simple silver bracelet on her left wrist..

As Hermione stepped forward, into the hall, Roselyn Werth's magically amplified voice said, "There she is! Without Professor Granger this dance would not have been possible." The attending students cheered, and a spotlight conjured up from somewhere in the depths of Hell to be her own personal nightmare fixed on Hermione.

The applause died down as the students and teachers all saw Hermione's arms. It was hard for Fleur to tell in the moonlight and Malfoy was naturally pale, but he might have blanched. "She..."

"She what?" Fleur demanded. "She is beautiful!" Her tone defied Malfoy or anyone else to disagree.

Early in the story, the author asked the reader to accept that Draco Malfoy was at heart a good person. She now begs the reader to understand that Draco was also very preceptive. He looked from Fleur to Hermione, who was scanning the room for someone, from Hermione to Fleur.

Well, well, well. A bisexual Veela. He'd seen stranger things.


	13. Sapphires

Roselyn, bless her, turned the spotlight on McGonagall and said something cheery. Hermione looked for Neville, Draco, Fleur, anyone, to pull her into the shadows, away from the pitying gazes of students who would once never have thought of feeling sorry for her.

"'ermione." For once a wish of hers had been granted.

"Fleur." Her mouth had gone dry the instant she stepped off the staircase, but now came the palms, sweaty though conspicuously not in gloves, and the butterfly-infested internal organs.

Fleur was wearing black, but her gown, a simple halter dress, shimmered faintly blue in keeping with the trio of jewels that glittered at her throat. Sapphires. Five more of the precious stones formed a flower in Fleur's hair, which was up in braids, wound about her head.

"Fleur," Hermione said again. "You--you look--um."

Fleur's eyes crinkled with her smile. "So do you."

They said little else for the remainder of the evening, retiring to a bench at the rear of the room and watching the dancers. As the night wore on, their eyes were less and less on participants in the revelry and more and more on each other. Malfoy, watching the pair, thought that they must have been the two least effective chaperones in the history of balls.

When fireworks, the heralds of the New Year, exploded around them, Hermione had just said something awkward and was intent on the floor at her feet. She did not immediately look up.

When she did, the first thing she saw was Fleur's face, approaching rapidly. She held her breath and then, much to her own dismay, turned her face to the right. Fleur's lips grazed her cheek and left a trail of warmth down the side of her face.

"'appy New Year."

* * *

A/N: Fleur's hair is actually based on a description I remember of Alexandra Bergson's hairstyle. That was a totally different situation, but it just seemed to work with what I was trying to show here.


	14. Maniac

One chilly day in late January, Hermione was on her way to her rooms after dinner when someone called out to her.

"Hermione."

The woman addressed turned back to face the speaker. She had known who he was without looking, but clung to the faint hope that she might have misheard. Who was she kidding? She could identify that voice in her sleep.

"Hello, Ron."

He hastened to put her in a favorable mood to hear him out. "I'm not here to point fingers. I wanted to apologize. Last time, I didn't say things right."

_No, really?_ "No, you didn't. But I overreacted."

Ron seemed encouraged, but did not speak. Instead he fidgeted with hs collar, looking around him at the architecture of the corridor. Hermione wondered why he had fallen silent, until she saw a cluster of Hufflepuff girls, late to dinner, looking at them curiously as the clique passed through.

When they had gone, Ron continued, "Actually, I didn't come to talk about the end of our relationship. I wanted to see if we could make a fresh start."

Hermione would not have believed the Ron's transition from oldest friend into slimy salesman had she not witnessed it herself. _How many times did he rehearse that line?_ "Ron-"

"We could go slow," he interrupted. "As slow as you like." Hermione thought this ironic, given that she had once said something very similar to him when he was terrified that she would trap him in a marriage.

Hermione shook her head. "I'm sorry, Ron, but I can't."

He looked stricken. "I know I was an idiot, but it won't happen again. Hermione, please. Give me another chance."

"It's not you," Hermione answered him softly. "I loved you. A fight couldn't change that."

Ron went from remorseful to puzzled. "What is it, then?"

"I..." Hermione had barely admitted this to herself, and was uncomfortable saying it out loud. "I think I may have found someone else."

"You think?" If Ron had sounded upset, Hermione would have told him that it was none of his business, but he seemed merely curious.

"I don't know how this person feels about me. Given, well, everything, it seems highly unlikely that I could hope for a return of my feelings, but I have to try."

"I don't blame you. But please, say it isn't Malfoy." Ron turned green at the mere thought, and Hermione had to laugh.

"It isn't Malfoy."

"Thank Merlin! Then I wish you well." Ron Weasley was, for the first time, putting a loved one's happiness above his own jealousy. Hermione was not insensible of the import of the occasion.

Ron added, half joking, "If it doesn't work out, you know where to find me."

"I don't think so, Ron." Hermione's tone was gentle but firm. At least, she was going for gentle but firm. The actual effect was closer to how she felt: adamant but full of regret. It worked out well, though, because the message got through to Ron much better couched in nostalgia than it would have had Hermione seemed to be unmoved.

"I'll be going, then."

On an impulse, Hermione threw her arms around him. He might never be her lover again, but Ron was still her friend.

* * *

Fleur was not hungry. She had stayed in the Great Hall just long enough to ask Hannah to make sure that Dominique ate a reasonable amount, and she was going to her office to see of she could find a particular book that one of her fifth-years had asked about.

Coming around a corner, she caught a flash of orange hair and ducked back behind the wall for concealment. Cautiously perring around the barrier, she identified the youngest Weasly boy embracing none other than Professor Hermione Granger.

Fleur's world was spinning. The happy couple were standing between her and her destination and she could barely remember her own name, let alone plan out an alternate route. Where was there left to go?

* * *

As Draco Malfoy ambled up from the dungeons towards the Great Hall, he was scanning a list of the students who wanted to tae NEWT-level Potions the following year. Surely, then, despite his usual rapid comprehension of female emotions-thank his mother for that-he can be forgiven for believing, when Fleur ran past, that he had imagined the tears. For Malfoy's sake, pass over the fact that Draco had never seen Fleur run anywhere, no matter how pressed she was for time.

To be fair, the young man always could put two and two together and arrive at four. He saw Ron, assumed that he and Hermione were dating again, heard them decide to still be friends, realized that he had judged wrongly, and remembered Fleur tearing off, all in one second.

He expressed himself with all the eloquent brevity a modern wizard can ever hope to possess. "Bollocks."

* * *

Half an hour later, Malfoy was becoming worried. Fleur was not in her rooms. She was not in her office or her classroom. She was not in his laboratory. He had even checked the Astronomy Tower, taking great pleasure in meting out detention to the Gryffindors fumbling in the dark. Draco might be a good man, but he would never be a nice one, at least not where those flying red and gold flags were concerned.

He decided to ask McGonagall if she had any idea where her missing staff member might be, but he very quickly happened upon a better plan, based on a vague memory from last semester.

In all honesty, this was not hard, for his last idea had almost no potential. McGonagall let her teachers wander where they wished, providing that they attended classes and meetings on a regular basis. Still, this new one was a Good Idea, even without the comparison to a long shot.

If Fleur had been careless, Malfoy reflected, his life would be fairly easy. If she hadn't, he had a long night ahead of him.

Approaching the Room of Requirement and seeing a door where the wall ought to be smooth and seamless, Draco permitted himself a smug smile. Coming closer, though, he could hear the sound of something shattering, and his grin faded. Perhaps this wouldn't be quite as simple as he had anticipated. "Maniac," he muttered. "And they call her calm!"

Praying to every god he could think of (This was not a large number. Wizards are primarily agnostic, and Draco had never bothered with Muggle Studies.), Malfoy pulled the door open.

The Room had outdone itself. It was perfect, though bare. Four hard stone walls and a long table covered with breakable objects were quite sufficient to convey the space's intended purpose.

Fleur had her back to the doorway and a vase in her hand. Draco waited until she had hurled it against the wall, mentally noting as she did so that it appeared fairly old and could probably have held its neck up in the best of museums, before he announced his presence. "You left the door open. Or in existence, anyway."

She whirled around, and he saw that she had been crying.

"I wouldn't have thought you the type to get violent when you were upset."

He was expecting to be the next target, but Fleur only wiped her eyes. "I am not."

"This," he indicated the entire room, "suggests otherwise."

"I am not usually," Fleur amended with obvious reluctance.

"Do you love her that much?"

"I don't love 'er at all. What she does is 'er business."

"Oh." Draco became absorbed in his already immaculate fingernails. "So you won't care that she isn't with Weasley?"

Fleur took a step towards him, but quickly gained control of herself. "She isn't?"

"No."

Fleur waited for details. Draco gave none.

"_Please_," she said in a hoarse whisper.

"They're friends. Nothing more. He was here to make sure that they could stay friends despite his stupidity." This was a guess, but Draco was confident of its accuracy.

Fleur's head dropped. Her shoulders began to heave, and Draco realized that she was crying again, He threw up his hands and walked out of the room. Behind his back, delicate glass figurines and ceramic sculptures disintegrated as the Room of Requirement tried to find and form what its occupant needed.

Fleur sat down on a growing couch, which put down legs just as she rested her full weight on it. She needed to do some serious soul-searching.


	15. Water

It was not quite cold enough to snow, so what was coming down was halfway between rain and ice. Fleur, patrolling a few minutes after curfew, was glad to be safe and warm inside, out of the storm.

She heard footsteps and prepared a stern face for whatever unfortunate student she was about to encounter. She was not Malfoy. She took no joy in punishing pupils. Still, it had to be done.

A few seconds later, she desperately wished it had been a student.

Hermione explained that she had been talking to Hagrid when the precipitation began, and had stayed in Hagrid's hut, hoping that the rain would stop. By the time she realized that she was going to have to brave the weather, the rain had graduated from a drizzle to a full-blown tempest.

"To make matters worse, I left my wand in my rooms, so I haven't been unable to do any drying or warming spells."

Fleur made a big show of searching through the pockets of her robes. "I also do not 'ave my wand," she lied. When Hermione bent her head in sorrow, she used a handy bit of wandless magic to warm the woman surreptitiously. She didn't want Hermione freeze, but she would be damned before she would see her dry.

Hermione's eyelashes were clumped together, and water was trickling from her hair down her neck and shoulders. Her robes clung to her, but were too bulky to reveal anything. Still, Fleur averted her eyes as she asked Hermione back to her room for a nice, 'ot cup of tea.

Hermione gratefully accepted, smiling so that a drop of water hovered on the corner of her mouth, and Fleur bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. She had to keep reminding herself that Not Going Out with Ron Weasley did not equal Interested in Fleur Delacour. Ah, but the water made it hard!


	16. Stormier

A/N: Unless you have ever reread a story you have had up for months and cringed at the errors you left in, you cannot imagine how grateful I am to the reviewers who point out my many typos. And to every other reviewer as well, of course. You're all wonderful.

However. I have been getting a lot of reviews asking me to update soon. I understand that it's jarring when you expect a few updates every day not to get them for a while, but I have exams. _Limited_ is too generous a word for my free time. This should still be done by March 30th, but probably not before.

* * *

"I'm rather partial to green tea, thanks," Hermione said politely, and Fleur selected the appropriate leaves. The two women were sitting in Fleur's living room, a cozy space sporting a crackling fireplace, cushy furniture, and Hermione's sodden robes in a heap on the floor. The drowned rat had put on a black woolen dress of Fleur's that she had more than once admired on its owner. She felt short and graceless in the borrowed garb, but had nothing of her own to wear, and liked the fire and the company too much to think of leaving.

Meanwhile, Fleur was playing hostess on autopilot, trying to decide whether Hermione looked better dripping wet or wearing Fleur's clothes. The thrill of knowing that the next time she wore the dress Hermione would remember wearing it was ahead by a hair.

The tea was ready very shortly, and Hermione cupped her hands around her share, letting the heat and distinctive odor hit her face. Her eyes were closed and she looked as though there was nowhere else she would rather be. Fleur was sipping her tea slowly, letting it trickle down her throat.

The initial cup of tea was a quiet time, during which Hermione began to feel human again.

The second cup of tea was consumed even more slowly than the first. Fleur asked about Hermione's parents, and explored the concept of a dentist in detail for the first time. Hermione inquired after Fleur's absent children, and smiled to hear that Victoire played violin and Louis had a Yorkshire terrier. She half wished that Ginny could see this side of the woman she had condemned.

"What about you, Fleur?" she asked, when she had learned that Gabrielle's daughter Salome made the beaded necklaces Fleur often wore. "What do you like to do?"

Fleur tipped her head at the wall behind Hermione. "I draw."

Turning around, Hermione saw a pencil drawing of a happy, laughing toddler who looked vaguely familiar. "Who is that?"

"Dominique."

Hermione flushed. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to insult your drawing. It's lovely, I just didn't recognize her."

Fleur set her cup down and waved a hand. "No one does. It's the smile."

Once she thought about it, Hermione realized that that was true. She had never seen Fleur's youngest child smile. If she had ever imagined a younger Dominique, it would have been a somber one.

"This," Fleur said, pulling a scrap of paper from her pocket, "I did yesterday, when I was thinking about my grandmuzzer again. I show you because I gave you the bracelet."

Hermione took the sketch and examined it. The woman depicted was old, but not frail. She had wavy hair and an aquiline nose. "She looks like you," she said, only half-aware that Fleur's accent had cued her French.

Fleur responded in the same tongue. "Perhaps she did, or perhaps I simply drew her that way. She died two years ago, and already her face is blurring in my mind."

"I'm sorry."

"She was old. The old die. If they did not, there could be no new life."

"That doesn't mean it isn't sad."

"I suppose not. Would you like some more tea?"

In answer, Hermione extended her cup. She remembered her mother, who had spent a year in Pakistan as a journalist before she had decided that she was better suited to a quieter life, telling her to honor an old custom and offer guests three cups of tea. After the third, they were family, and one owed them loyalty.

"You're a good artist," she said suddenly.

Fleur poured her more tea. "Thank you. I enjoy it. I drew for a living in Scotland."

Hermione stared at Fleur as though she had never seen her before. "Really?"

"I was a street artist. I think a lot of the men stopped because of me, not my artwork, but I was not picky."

Hermione was amazed at how much more comfortable and forthcoming Fleur was when she spoke in French. It made sense, she supposed, but it was strange to consider. Also, she had assumed the slight air of formality in Fleur's voice was a result of her constantly having to translate, but she now suspected that it was simply a habit. Even in French, Fleur spoke a little more slowly than everyone else, and did not slur her words as most people do in their native language.

A crack of thunder sounded. Hermione got up and went to the window, staring out through a silvery diamond laced with lead. "It's even stormier now than it was when I was out there." Realizing she had lapsed into English, she repeated her remark in French before Fleur could reply.

"Yes."

Hermione realized what had been nagging at the back of her mind since she came in. Turning around, and cupping her tea in both hands, she asked, "Ou est Dominique?"

Fleur, who had risen, indicated a door to her left. "Asleep. She sleeps very lightly, so I put up silencing charms. That way I do not disturb her. She hears nothing unless her door is open." Looking at Fleur's too-blank face, Hermione got the feeling there was more to that story than she was getting, but she didn't press.

"She's a wonderful child." Hermione drained her teacup.

"Oui. I have received a thousand blessings. My husband, my children... everyone I care for."

Hermione refused to read too much into the last element of the compound object.

Fleur came around the coffee table and approached Hermione. "Would you like more tea? If you are finished, I will take your cup."

Hermione shook her head and held it out. Fleur took it, but didn't back away. Instead, she actually came nearer, and set the cup on the windowsill.

"There is a hair." And indeed, a few strands of Hermione's damp hair had adhered to her lip.

Fleur hooked a pale finger around it and removed it. She had come quite close to Hermione, and she didn't have to extend her arm at all to touch Hermione's cheek. Her thumb brushed Hermione's lower lip, tickling pleasantly where just a moment ago a touch had been a mild irritation.

Fleur leaned forward. "You have a nice mouth."

"Merc-" Hermione was obliged to give up speaking for the present, as her nice mouth was suddenly covered in warmth.

Fleur did not kiss like Viktor, as though she wanted to suck Hermione's skin from her face, and she did not kiss like Ron, who seemed to have the opposite intent, forcing his tongue into Hermione's mouth.

Hermione's brain decided to stop listing the things the kiss was not, and start figuring out what it was. She got as far as _sweet_ and _light_ before Fleur's clock intervened. It sounded twelve times, and Hermione jerked back against the window as though she, rather than midnight, had been struck.

"It's getting late," she said in English as halting as ever her French. "And I have classes tomorrow. We have classes, I mean. I should go."

Fleur was many things in love, but she was not forceful. Anything that even vaguely suggested compulsion was repulsive to her. She ignored the big brown eyes belying Hermione's voice, and stepped away. Hermione fled the room, turning only long enough at the portrait hole to say, "I'll see you, then."

The part-Veela stared after her in frustration, wondering where that had gone wrong. Remembering Malfoy's slightly contemptuous amusement, she refrained from throwing things, but when she touched Hermione's discarded teacup, it crumbled with the force of her ire.

Still, Hermione hadn't run away at first. That was good, wasn't it? Having never needed to seduce anyone, Fleur was somewhat at a loss. She sat herself firmly on the couch, refusing to pace. After she had arranged her fingers neatly in a steeple and coaxed her face into an expression of serenity, Fleur began to think.

* * *

A/N: Fleur's a smooth operator, non? Stupid clock.

There's a book called _Three Cups of Tea_ that would be a useful reference for the first part of this chapter. It probably hadn't been written when this takes place, and, like the reference to _O Pioneers!_ it's a totally different kettle of fish, but it's a good book anyway. You don't miss anything in the story if you haven't read it, though.

I use French where they are supposed to be speaking that language iff a) I can say it, and b) I think the meaning is obvious from the context. As you can see, the overlap is negligible.


	17. Hundreds

A/N: What would a romance be without the obligatory Valentine's Day scene?

Also, at the suggestion of A reader, whose reviews have been very helpful, **I have written all French in bold.** The original suggestion was actually italics, but I make use of those for thoughts. Let me know if it helps you with or detracts from your reading of the story.

And now, without further ado... Ladies and gentlemen, the results of my break from hours of reviewing!

* * *

Fleur was starting to realize that she was facing very stubborn opposition.

Hermione had sent the dress back by elf, without a note. Hermione in the hallways, hair up in a bun as tight as the curls would allow, nodded to her in passing and she politely nodded back. Hermione asked her to pass the butter and she did so. Hermione avoided her and she sought out a way to talk to her tormentor as she had always done. If only she could do that, she would not try to kiss her again, would not even touch her, but would be content to go along as two fellow teachers.

Fleur knew that Hermione was interested in her. Malfoy knew. Even some of the more astute students had worked it out. Of course Hermione knew, too.

It may seem to us, then, as we look on from a safe distance in time and space, that Hermione was being melodramatic. Malfoy, who had been using his students as spies to watch the whole drama with interest, certainly thought so. However, Malfoy had spoken to Fleur about her jealousy only because he had thought she might lash out at some hapless student. He was certainly not going to break his complacent silence just to tell Hermione what he thought of the situation.

It is just as well, for she might not have listened at all. Hermione knew how she felt, but she had a hundred pearly beads of excuses on a necklace, from which dangled her cross to bear. Of three shimmering spheres she was particularly proud.

It was the wrong time. Hermione had just gotten out of a very long relationship.

_Very true, nominally, at least. But when did you and Ron last act as a real couple? By this I mean talking, kissing, etc. An awkward proposal does not count by any stretch of the imagination._

Fleur was a coworker.

_Didn't Hagrid say something about Professors Slughorn and Vector? And the Headmistress probably wouldn't mind..._

Fleur was a woman.

Ah, yes. This may be the only real pearl on a string of perfectly round fakes. The wizard world was as homophobic as the Muggle one, if not more so. Poor Dumbledore knew this well. Besides, Hermione had never found any woman arousing before.

So things went along until one morning, when Hermione was sleeping as usual and XCrookshanks was in his customary perch on her desk. The other occupant of that seat was a blue metal clock, with both numbers and phrases, such as _Mortal Peril_, on it. The hands on the device were of various sizes, and read _Mum, Dad, Ron, Harry, Ginny, Neville, _and-recent developments-_Malfoy_ and _Fleur_.

Ron's hand was currently smaller than all the others, and Fleur's surpassed all but Harry's. Very interesting, but at the moment we are interested only in the last hands, a red one and a blue one, both without labels. The red one was stationary at seven thirty, but the blue one inched ever closer to its nameless compatriot. At half past seven, it slid under the red hand and, in a bizarre turn of events flipped it off the clock. The red hand retaliated by emitting a high-pitched whine.

Hermione groaned and sat up. Fumbling for her wand, and locating it eventually, on the floor, she muttered a spell and the sound ceased. The red hand reattached itself to the alarm clock, and Hermione sighed with relief. She arose and apologized profusely to her cat, who glared at her the same way each morning. Merlin only knows when Crookshanks arose to meet with his old flame, Mrs. Norris, but he always seemed to have been awakened by the alarm.

Hermione thought it was going to be a good day. She had finished most of her grading for the week the night before, so she had no towering stacks of paper to look forward to between classes, and there was apparently no cloud in the sky.

Then she came to her senses. "Oh, _no._"

Hermione never had been too fond of Valentine's Day. It was all very well if you inspired the purchase of chocolates and roses galore, but when the only real boyfriend you've ever had was Ron Weasley, you learned quickly that the 14th of February was a day to dread. It goes without saying that being single was no better.

Hermione's worst fears were confirmed when she entered the Great Hall.

"Good God,"she breathed. "There are _hundreds_ of them."

She could see Malfoy smirking at her from the High Table, but she thought her slack jaw and hushed whisper were perfectly understandable.

Hearts. Three-dimensional stylized hearts. Three-dimensional stylized hearts hovering in the air. Perhaps they were paper, but if so, it was a particularly shiny variety. Wine red, scarlet, plain solid red, and of course the pink. Powder pink, hot pink, magenta, and a dozen other shades less easily named. A few of them seemed to have some identifying feature: a set of silvery wings, a dangling golden string, or other similar attribute.

Hermione stepped cautiously past the threshold. She felt silly for her paranoia, but it seemed she was right to beware. Glittering specks in her vision informed her that she was being showered in confetti. A quick glance down confirmed that it was sticking to her robes. Brilliant.

A maroon ornament floated down to hover in front of her face. This seemed to be the culprit. She reached out and gingerly pinched it between two fingers. Gold spots appeared on the surface of the heart, but it was otherwise unaffected. She released it, and it gently rose several feet higher. Hermione brushed her robes off as best she could, not scrupling to add more confetti to the floor, which was already littered with the substance, and proceeded to the Great Hall.

She was still trying not to speak to Fleur, but when Hermione realized that the silver-haired woman and her solemn daughter were the only people visible not wearing garish lace and bright hues, she couldn't help smiling at them and greeting Dominique. Malfoy, who somehow managed to look undeniably masculine in dark pink (He would never have dreamed of wearing Gryffindor red.), was treated to a baleful glare. "Morning, sunshine."

"Do you even have a girlfriend?"

"Alas, I seem to lack one this year. I must make a note never to let it happen again."

It can have no possible effect on this story, so I feel it does no harm to say that Malfoy took heed of his mental jotting. Professor Flitwick went into retirement the very next year, and Malfoy was head over heels in love with his replacement by the end of December. Hermione (but not Dominique), ignorant on this point, laughed.

"Sorry, Malfoy, not interested."

"And after I waited so long!" He grinned at her.

Banter that would once have been unthinkable with a Slytherin was now easy. Would she trust Malfoy with a secret as, unbeknownst to her, Fleur had done? Certainly not. There was no question of it. But she could talk to him. He kept the witticisms light, and steered away from any aspect of her that he had insulted during school. Hermione appreciated the effort, and it was that that enabled them to become friends. In keeping with this, the pair passed much of the meal in a similar manner.

Fleur was less comfortable. Veelas hate Valentine's Day more than the most jaded single. The looks the Defense against the Dark Arts Professor was getting were open leers, rather than the usual lustful stares, which at least were veiled. "**My God. Boys are pigs, as bad as their fathers.**"

Hermione overheard this and said, without knowing what she did, "**I find it hard to blame them.**" The hands that left her lap to clamp over her mouth were like two stable hands shutting the gates after the horse is already gone.

Malfoy, forgetting that he wasn't supposed to understand French (Would _you _waste the opportunity to eavesdrop?), blew his cover by making a strangled sound that might have indicated amusement. Hermione didn't notice, but Fleur gave him a look that betrayed her understanding and disapprobation.

Fleur responded as though Hermione's comment had been usual. "**Thank you. But there is a difference between appreciation and lechery. The first is acceptable, the second is not.**"

"**I see. I imagine that you get a lot of it, anyway.**"

"**Yes. We all do.**"

Risking life and limb to point out Hermione's radiance, Malfoy added, "**You're getting some attention too, Granger.**"

Fleur's lips tightened. She was well aware of the many looks Hermione was getting. The limbs of a woman warrior might bear the scars from their owner's way of life, but they were strong and supple. Hermione's robes did not quite cover her arms. Her legs were covered entirely, but a good imagination removed that difficulty.

Beside her, Hermione was too amazed to learn that Malfoy was bilingual to care much what he had said. Her conversation with him-in French, naturally-about her time at university and his business trips continued into the corridor, on their way to their classes. Fleur walked silently with them, wishing Malfoy would leave.

He was still there, however, when a fifth-year Gryffindor approached with a piece of red paper in his clenched hand. "Pro-professor Delacour?"

"Yes?"

"I wanted to give you this." The hapless boy held out his card, crumpled in several places from his tight grip.

"...Zank you."

Hermione cleared her throat. "Duffy, don't you have a class to get to?"

"Yes, Professor. I wanted to give this to Professor Delacour first."

"I suggest you go to class now." The boy hesitated. "_Now._"

Malfoy snickered, and Hermione glared at the student's retreating back.

Fleur looked at her oddly. "**That was not necessary. It was an acceptable-**"

"I'm sorry. **I'm sorry. About that night.**"

Fleur looked at her. "**You have nothing to be sorry about.**"

"**Yes, I do. You did nothing...**" Hermione swallowed. Draco, sensing an excursion onto an unstable limb, vanished. "**Nothing I didn't want you to do.**"

"**Ah.**"

That night, when Draco patrolled the grounds, catching snogging students left and right, he managed to stop himself from emerging from the shadows and interrupting a faculty romance.

He could not, however, resist a sigh of resignation as he tiptoed away. In the Front Hall, a safe distance from the kissing women, he muttered to the sky, "Did it have to be Valentine's Day?"

The clouds did not open to reveal a heavenly face, and he heard no sweet, angelic voice, but a paper heart, sapped of its magic, drifted slowly to the floor.

* * *

A/N: I was feeling poetic when I wrote this, but there are a few sections that might not make sense, so if something made you frown when you read it, let me know. By the way, was it too wordy in general?

Thanks to all readers and reviewers past and future.


	18. Continually

A/N: Thanks to all reviewers. I have decided to keep French in bold, simply because it's easier for me. =]

This chapter is drabble length (sort of)! I'm really, really, really proud.

* * *

Since the beginning of the year, they had been continually spiraling around each other like dance partners, drawing ever closer, occasionally brushing hands. At the Christmas ball, immediately after their encounters during Fleur's convalescence, they had gone as far as the metaphorical hand on the curve of a slender waist. The night Fleur had kissed Hermione had seemed to her to be the end of the dance, but now she saw that it merely been a stumble.

Sex was a slow dance, requiring time. It was not Valentine's Day, and it was not the day after, but a month later that Fleur went back to Hermione's apartment for more than conversation.

She left Dominique reading on the couch, with full knowledge of where her mother was going, and even why. She loved her children too much to keep them in the dark. The tempo of the dance had changed when she calmly informed Dominique that she had kissed Hermione Granger. Dominique already knew, of course, but it was the telling that mattered.

* * *

Hermione radiated warmth. Warm skin, warm mouth, and warm brown eyes starred with dark lashes. Fleur pressed her against the bed, trying to soak up all the heat before it could escape into the sheets. For all her dominance, Fleur moved slowly, carefully, holding her lover-the word sounded strange even in her head-as though she might break. She could feel Hermione's chest rising and falling, and feel the tickling of shallow breaths on her neck.

When Hermione spoke, her voice was soft, and came out in a sigh. At first, Fleur felt crass in comparison. French words left her in a torrent. Soon, though, she stopped caring, and thought only of the sensation.

The partners walked off the dance floor together; Hermione and Fleur both fell asleep.

The dance was over.

* * *

A/N: I'm not the first person to use the metaphor of a dance to describe romance, and I won't be the last, but it's a good comparison, anyway.


	19. Blissful

A/N: This one has two prompts, because there ere actually 31. I have named the chapter after one word. The other is "closed."

I think this one counts as a drabble, too! Two in a row! Wow! Okay, so it's not really...

At least it's acceptable oneshot length.

* * *

Hermione kept her eyes firmly closed. She knew from the slight tension in the arm encircling her that Fleur was awake and watching her. It was for that very reason that she pretended to be asleep. _Let this continue._

It could have begun months ago. She knew that, and Fleur knew that, but the ball was in the past, and even starting late didn't mean that they couldn't do this right._  
_

The sheets, Fleur, and Hermione were all equally warm, something that comes only after long contact. Without moving, Hermione was hard-pressed to say exactly where she ended and Fleur began, and she liked it that way.

The leg tangled in hers as though its owner had no interest in removing it was Fleur's, and as she could give the rough location of each of her hands, Hermione assumed that the fingers toying with her hair were Fleur's as well.

Fleur's embrace was blissful in a way she had never experienced, and she wanted to cling to the feeling for as long as she could before they were forced to rise, going back to the smartest students, who smirked with their knowledge, the other professors, who winked entirely too much, and the disapproving stare of Professor McGonagall. As it turned out, the Headmistress did not generally disapprove of relationships among her faculty, but she did disapprove of this one.

Hermione had spoken to her fellow teachers and asked them not to tell the Weasleys, and her request had been granted, but she waited every day for a Howler.

The easiest thing would have been to just not tell them, but Malfoy had convinced them that McGonagall had a right to know, and McGonagall had felt that the other teachers did, too.

Somehow, it was very hard for scandalized Trelawney and chuckling Flitwick to matter at the moment, when the most important things were bare skin and tightly shut eyes.

If she was lucky, she could go back to sleep.


	20. Opened

A/N: In brief response to a couple of questions asked by anonymous reviewers:

I have a rough idea of how this is going to go, but it changes a lot as I realize that something else works better with the themes I want to include.

Flitwick is not yet retired. I said he would retire next year.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter.

* * *

Fleur could tell real sleep from feigned, and she almost wanted to speak to Hermione, say good morning, but the other woman's eyelids were fascinating. Thin and delicate, wrinkled in places, and tipped with fine, brown hairs, they made Hermione look nothing so much as fragile. Fleur couldn't bring herself to end her opportunity to stare.

Hermione opened her eyes, making no pretense of having just woken up. "Hello."

Fleur stared into the bright brown irises and memorized their expression, full of contentment. "'ello."

"What time is it?"

""Nine."

Hermione's eyes widened. "Nine o'clock?"

"**On a Saturday.**"

Hermione relaxed. "Ah... **But breakfast?**"

Fleur's face was unequivocally dismissive.

* * *

The decision to visit the kitchens was not a hard one. The difficult part of the process was getting dressed. Fleur had not planned for the evening to go as well as it had, and she had no clothes with her. Hermione was much smaller than she was, and she couldn't possibly wear any of the other girl's clothes.

"Not to mention," Hermione said worriedly, "that I don't have all that much in black."

In the end, Dobby was summoned. He seemed the least curious of beings, at least as to why Fleur had not slept in her own rooms, and fetched the necessary articles without comment. Unfortunately, being a house elf, he made the small mistake of forgetting to bring a shirt, though, truthfully, that might have been Dominique's fault, for she was the one to whom Dobby was supposed to report.

Anyway, Fleur knew enough about house elves that she didn't mention it. A half hour's search yielded a bottle green button-down shirt that had never fit Hermione.

Hermione was not against charming the shirt black, but Fleur pointed out that this sort of spell often ruined a shirt and shrugged the colour off. "**One day will send no one spinning in his grave.**"

Neither woman was sure how to reach their destination unobserved, short of walking through walls. They finally decided to just go.

This plan had shock value, at least. Hermione's casually cheerful greetings to every student she saw did little to allay suspicion. Adolescents are naturally possessed of minds suitable for long exposure to the gutter, and they would have seen anything even if there had nothing to observe.

There were, oddly enough, no impertinent comments. Perhaps the gossip-mongers remembered Hermione's wand-happy right hand, or perhaps they loved their two young professors too much to embarrass them. Perhaps they were simply too shocked to form a coherent sentence. Whatever the reason, all that met Hermione and Fleur as they strode purposefully through the corridors was a torrent of sunny "Good morning!"s and "Nice day, innit?"s.

When they had left the crowds behind, Hermione tickled the appropriate fruit, and they enjoyed hot coffee and pumpkin pasties.

* * *

Over the next few days, Fleur's patience was pushed to its limit. Irritating slackers, whining suck-ups, and girls who giggled incessantly all increased the level of her stress, but she found that she had a surprisingly effective method to keep her temper. She counted to ten and, as she did, she thought of Hermione's opened eyes.


	21. Dreamily

One fine morning towards the end of March, Hermione was in her office grading papers when there came a tap on her door.

"Come in," she called, and the door opened.

Ginny Potter was not the sort of person who bothered with small talk. "You're not getting away this time," she said.

Hermione blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"From the visit. You got out of it at Christmas because you had a sudden-and suspicious-attack of charity, but not this time. I am claiming you for the first week of the summer." She raised a warning finger. "No. Don't you dare protest. I owled your parents, and they said they weren't expecting you then, so don't even try. I don't care who's dying or what you've been invited to. My family haven't seen you since the summer. My father is practically coming apart at the seams, he's so stuffed with questions to ask you about Muggle musical players, and Charlie has a book he wants to give you.

"Oh, and Ron will only be there for the first two days. He's going off to Italy with a friend he met through Quidditch." Something about Ginny's tone made Hermione wonder if Ron's traveling companion was female, but she didn't ask.

"I'm going now, if only so you can't come up with an excuse to skip out." Ginny moved to go, but Hermione called her back.

"Stay," she said, laughing. "Stay. I promise not to come up with a good excuse until you're gone. Anyway, I'll want to send it by letter, so you can't hex me."

"Fair enough," Ginny relented. She sat down in the chair usually reserved for troublesome students.

Hermione might be Ginny's brother's ex-girlfriend, but she was also the youngest Weasley's best friend. There was no awkwardness, no pregnant pauses. At least, there weren't until Ginny asked about the Defense against the Dark Arts teacher. Hermione jumped a foot in the air and babbled that Fleur was fine. She thanked Merlin that the chill of March meant she was wearing her usual long sleeves, revealing neither the amethyst bracelet not the scars that Ginny was accustomed to see concealed. Realizing that she wasn't making any sense, Hermione shut her mouth and smiled uncomfortably, looking at a spot in the air just left of her friend's shoulder, wishing she'd planned an easy way to tell the Weasleys she was dating a woman they had good reason to dislike.

Ginny, recognizing that Hermione wasn't watching her, raised an eyebrow and mouthed, "Okaaaay." She waited a moment to see if Hermione could come up with a more coherent response to her casual inquiry, and then, deciding that _that_ was highly unlikely, asked, "Is something wrong?"

"No, no," Hermione hastened to reassure her, "I was just thinking. About things." Hermione would have given any bobble-head a run for its money.

Ginny coughed discreetly, and the nodding stopped. "Are you getting along with Phlegm?"

Hermione jumped again. Oh, no, no. I mean, yes! She's fine. She's perfectly nice..." Hermione smiled dreamily, and Ginny's eyebrows rose still higher.

"At Christmas, I got the impression you were fond of her. So you're friends?"

"Yes, yes. We're friends-that's it."

"All right," Ginny said slowly. "Would you like to bring her with you?"

Hermione choked on her saliva. "Are you sure that's a good idea? I mean, with your history?"

Ginny shrugged. "Maybe not. But her daughter's here, I heard. Mum will put up with anything if it means getting to see even one of her grandchildren. Bring Dominique, and all will be forgiven, or at least temporarily excused."

This was not a good idea. Hermione knew this, and yet she found herself saying, "I'll ask her."

"You do that," Ginny said, rising and taking her bag. "I have to go, I have an interview at noon. See you, then."

"See you," Hermione replied. Ginny left, and she let her head fall on the desk.

_Not good._


	22. Raving

A/N: This is quite short, but that's fine by me.

* * *

"Are you sure? Your mother's going to kill her. Or Ron will. Or George. Or-"

Ginny put the expenses report down and took her reading glasses off, folding the arms against her collarbone. "Harry, darling, you're raving."

Her husband deflated somewhat, but was determined to have his point acknowledged. "What were you thinking, Gin?"

Honestly, she didn't know. "It seemed like a good idea at the time. And anyway, there's definitely something going on. If Hermione won't tell me what it is, I'll find out some other way."

"Why not just ask Hannah?"

"I tried that, but she won't give me a straight answer."

Harry threw up his hands. "This is a bad idea, but if you're set on it, I'll help you convince your mother."

* * *

"**Are you sure? I mean, you know what their mum's like, and George's no picnic himself when he's mad. I would understand completely if you didn't want-**"

Fleur set her quill down, careful not to get excess ink on the paper she was reviewing. "**Hermione, dear, you're raving.**"

Hermione deflated somewhat, but seemed determined to make sure that Fleur knew what she was doing. "**What about Dominique? Will she be all right?**"

"**Molly Weasley has many faults, but she loves her family. She will try to be kind, and between us, we can probably prevent her from saying anything too tactless.**"

"**You could send her to Gabrielle.**"

"**And remove the only barrier to Mme. Weasley's being insufferable? Besides, perhaps Dominique should spend time with her father's family.**" Fleur spoke with assurance, nothing on her face betraying the mixture of guilt, nostalgia, longing, and fear she felt. Still, Hermione knew.

Hermione threw up her hands. "**This is a bad idea, but if you're set on it, I'll write Ginny.**"

"**Thank you.**" Fleur fiddled with the papers on her desk. "**And I think we ought to tell them.**"

Hermione didn't have to ask what she meant. "**Oh. Really?**"

"**Yes, if you can.**"

Hermione swallowed. "**If it's important to you... all right.**"


	23. Truthfully

A/N: As you can see, this is late. Mea culpa, mea culpa. I have been out of town, doing exciting things.

I failed the challenge, but I will not, of course, abandon the story. Seven chapters left!

This chapter contains approximately a thousand exclamation marks. Read at your own risk.

* * *

It had all been going so well, too, Ginny thought miserably. She could see that Hermione was about to say something that was going to upset the delicate balance between familial informality and stiff adherence to certain rules of etiquette, such as not swearing at the girl who has kept her children hidden away from you, their grandmother. Merlin only knew what it was, but it was coming. It was a mercy Dominique had been sent upstairs at nine, though of course she probably understood perfectly what was going on.

The question, a half-hearted attempt by Harry to fill the silence: "So, you two are friends, then?"

The answer, yet to be determined.

"Yes." Hermione took a deep breath. "Actually..." She stopped and looked at Fleur imploringly. "Truthfully... We're not exactly friends. We're, erm..." Ginny had a sneaking suspicion she knew where this was going. She was torn between wanting to see how it turned out and a desire to be far, far away from what was about to happen.

Hermione continued gamely. "We're dating."

The silence was deafening. Arthur Weasley blinked owlishly. "You're what?"

Hermione released a shaky breath. "Dating."

"You're _what_?" This from Ron, who was Not Helping.

Hermione glared at him. "Dating."

"YOU'RE _WHAT_?" Ginny had known that it was too good to be true. Of course Mum couldn't keep her counsel. Up until now, she had been too shocked to chime in, but that could never have lasted. "You _hussy_!"

"Molly!" _Thanks, Dad_, Ginny thought grimly, _but it's going to take more than that._

"I _knew_ this would happen! Ron wanted to marry you, and you-you-"

"Um, perhaps we should-" _What a hero._ Ginny looked at Percy with disgust.

"Didn't want to marry him," Hermione said fiercely. "I'm sorry, but that's the truth."

"You ungrateful whore!"

"Molly!"

"How _dare _you come in here-"

"_Mum._"

Amazingly, Charlie's quiet monosyllable did what Hermione's cool determination, Percy's nervous stuttering, and Arthur's failed attempts to attract his wife's attention had all failed to accomplish. Molly Weasley's mouth snapped shut.

"Maybe," Charlie said calmly, "we should listen to what they have to say before we say things that can't be unsaid."

Now that the shouting had stopped, Ginny was forced to let Harry catch her eye. He seemed none too happy. The unpleasant gleam in his eye told her that he remembered her curiosity and blamed her for it. She hurriedly looked away, but could still feel her husband's gaze on her cheek. She resolved to keep a metre away from him, preventing angry whispers in her ear.

Hermione was visibly taken aback by the ferocity of Mrs. Weasley's onslaught. That matriarch stood behind the sofa opposite her opponent, looking very much like a steaming kettle in an apron. Her temper was clearly not improved by the sight of Hermione clutching Fleur's hand for support.

It was an odd tableau. Hermione and Fleur sat alone on one couch and Ginny could see now that they were closer together than was strictly necessary. Ginny was in an armchair on Hermione's left, and Harry was by the fire, to Fleur's right. Across from the blushing brunette and her waxen lover was Mrs. Weasley, fingers tightly gripping the top of a worn blue sofa, behind which she had retreated after her diatribe had been interrupted. Beneath her wing, as it were, sat Arthur, George, Percy, and Charlie. Arthur looked dazed, George grim, Percy skittish, and Charlie less surprised than one might have supposed to be the case.

Ron cleared his throat. "That... explains a lot."

The awkward silence had been dealt a flesh wound, but not defeated, and it attacked again with a vengeance. A full minute later, Harry ventured, "So you are..."

Hermione cast a sideways glance at Fleur. Even in her own mind, this had always been an awkward subject. "Lovers" sounded sordid, but "girlfriends" was just _wrong_.

"Togezzer," Fleur said firmly.

"Oh."

Charlie, to whom Fleur had written immediately after making the decision to tell the Weasleys, asking for his support, made the next attempt. "How long have you been... together?"

Hermione, who was unaware of this particular missive from Fleur, gave him a look that betrayed pathetic gratefulness. "Since February." She couldn't make herself say "Valentine's Day." The idea of falling in love on February 14th was, like candy hearts and girlfriends, inextricably tangled in school. She might teach at Hogwarts, but she was no longer a student there.

"And how did that happen, then?" George asked coolly. "Did you just start snogging in the Staff Room during a particularly boring meeting?"

Hermione jerked back against the cushion of the couch as though she had been stung. If she hadn't known that Fleur and Charlie were friends-and even then, given how fresh Bill's death still was in Charlie's memory-she might have expected it from Charlie, but never from George.

Ginny, too, was clearly astonished, but she recovered in a millisecond. "George! Don't you start! Your wife dated your brother! Your _dead_ brother! How sick is that?" Hermione couldn't help casting a glance about for Angelina, but it seemed that she and Penelope were still out shopping.

However tactless the statement might have been, it rang true. George went perfectly still and said not another word.

Mrs. Weasley was not so strongly affected. "Ginevra! It's not at all the same."

"All right, let's hear it then," Ginny said, eyes blazing. "Let's hear the many ways that this is different from George's relationship."

"That _woman_," Mrs. Weasley hissed, jabbing a finger at the offending female, "has always hated us. She didn't want to share anything with us, so she took Bill's children and disappeared. It was acceptable when she came here for a week, as a favor to Hermione-though why that scarlet woman deserves our friendship, I'll never know!-but this is another thing. She has the audacity to come here with her lover, flaunting their relationship in our faces!"

"Mrs. Weasley." This was the fifth time Fleur had attempted to halt the older woman's speech by this method, but it was the first time she met with success. "I do not like you. Why should I? You never liked me, even after the...accident. But for Bill's sake I tolerated his family, and for Bill's sake only. When 'e died, I felt no need to remain in England, or to let you see my children.

"I came back now for ze sake of anozzer. You 'orrible woman, can you not see? 'ermione loves you. I cannot see why, but she loves you all. You are as much 'er family as 'er flesh and blood, and she wanted you to know zis."

Mrs. Weasley's wrath was not unusual, and it was permissible to interrupt it. Fleur was not given to effusive speeches about her emotions, so the Weasleys sat stunned as the juggernaut hurtled on.

"She came here to tell you something zat was important to 'er, and what do you do? You take your anger at me and throw it at 'er. Zat is not kind. Zat is not ze action of people who care." Fleur stood abruptly, wrenching her hand from Hermione's grip. "You do not deserve her." In a flurry of black, Fleur disappeared upstairs.

The belligerent Weasleys left the room quickly and quietly, not even Molly daring to speak another word with Ginny's eyes upon them. Hermione murmured her wishes for a good sleep and followed suit. At last, only the Potters were left. Ginny ignored her husband and stared behind him into the fire, thinking.

* * *

A/N: This chapter shows the worst of the Weasleys, particularly Molly. She never really accepted Fleur, and she was always quick to believe terrible things of Hermione (Remember Easter in their fourth year?). I based this around those assumptions.


	24. Brightness

A learned Russian once observed that happy families are all alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. Certainly there cannot be many families preoccupied with tiptoeing around their former daughter/sister-in law, currently involved with a former candidate for daughter/sister-in-law, who happened to be best friends with a cherished son/brother-in-law.

The situation was thus: Fleur was nowhere to be seen, but Dominique came down for a few hours every day to make small talk with her grandparents.

Mrs. Weasley treated the interloper with frosty disdain.

Mr. Weasley had always liked Hermione, and gave her a kindly smile when his wife's back was turned.

Ginny had explained things to Angelina and Penelope, who had had stern talks with their husbands. George and Percy were being scrupulously polite to Hermione.

Charlie, bless him, went about his business with his usual good-natured serenity, and proved quite willing to take over for Ginny as Hermione's shoulder to cry on.

Ron was just glad Gloria was expecting him. He wasn't sure he could handle another moment with his ex.

Though she was not often in the same room, Hermione was on Ron's mind every instant he stayed in the Burrow. The night before he was supposed to leave, the youngest Weasley boy tried to explain it to Harry as they were sitting in the living room, the other occupants of the house having long gone up to bed.

"I like Gloria-maybe I'll love her someday-but there's something about Hermione. I was going to marry her, I really was, and spend my life with her. I think I still want that."

"Have you told her?"

Ron shook his head and looked down at his palms, spread before him. "Nah. I was going to pull her aside and ask her for yet another chance, but..."

Harry prompted, "Fleur?"

"Yeah. It's not that they're going together, exactly. It's like, I saw it earlier, but I didn't know what it meant. That morning, when we didn't know. Hermione smiled, and.. it had _brightness_. I don't think I've seen her that happy since before it all happened." He did not have to elaborate. Harry knew when he meant.

"I dunno, but I don't think she ever looked like that around me. If that's right, I can't risk it. She might say no. Or she might say yes and regret it. I can't do that, Harry.

"She barely looks at me now. We're not like we were, as friends. It'll get better, but it'll take time, and I won't set that back by pushing her."

Harry smiled sadly, pointedly not looking at the silhouette he could see from the corner of his eye. "I understand."

"Anyway," Ron continued, "Gloria's nice. You'll like her."

"I'm sure I will."

"Yeah, well, it's getting late. Long day tomorrow. G'night."

"G'night."

If Ron noticed the faint scent of flowers as he climbed the stairs, he put it down to Hermione's lengthy stay in the house.


	25. Gone

A/N: The rest of the story is pretty much falling action, so the chapters ought to be closer to drabble length.

It's just now the start of my summer hols, so the timing of this chapter is appropriate.

* * *

The week with the Weasleys aside, it had promised to be an uneventful summer. They had gotten through that first obstacle with only a few incidents of incivility, and Fleur had even promised to send Dominique round once or twice a year (Mrs. Weasley had dropped her teacup.). Hermione had been fully prepared to spend the rest of the break planning lessons, drinking lemonade, and kissing Fleur.

Now her quarters seemed lonely and bare: Fleur was gone to see Gabrielle, whose husband was ill. She had left in a black coat and black pants, with her black-robed daughter clinging to her side. She had taken nothing but a small bag, but Hermione felt like she had lost everything. Fleur had taken with her the beauty of the season. Hermione noted the vivid wildflowers and crystalline lake only to feel sure that they could never hold a candle to blue eyes and pale skin.

Those who have never experienced the pain of having a newly minted intimate ripped from their arms cannot fully appreciate Hermione's feelings. Fleur had fallen suddenly into her life, but she had landed straight in the center of it. _Of course,_ Hermione reflected as she pondered her metaphor, _if Fleur fell anywhere, she'd land like a cat, on her feet._

And after all, hadn't she? Fleur wanted Hermione but never needed her. She had defended her, and she would, Hermione knew, continue to do so for as long as they were...whatever they were, but she could walk out without a backwards glance.

Hermione was afraid every day that she would wake to find Fleur gone forever.


	26. I chose you

A/N: This takes place after Fleur comes back from helping Gabrielle. From now on, the chapters may jump large time spans. It's just something to be aware of.

* * *

Unable to sleep, Fleur put her feet on the floor beside the bed. She intended to go sit in her living room and read, but a hand about her wrist pulled her back. Hermione's eyes were open wide, and her grip was tight. "**Don't go,**" she whispered urgently. Fleur nodded an acknowledgment and lay back down.

Hermione's grip softened and fell away, and the breaths beside Fleur's ear grew deep and even. Hermione had slipped into sleep, but Fleur could not.

There had been desperation in Hermione's embrace when she had left two weeks before. Fleur had seen it many times before, whenever she walked out of the room. Never was the emotion aimed at a specific person-it was not that sort of jealousy-but Hermione was terrified.

Fleur fought to contain her anger. At Ron, who had walked out on his best friends in seventh year, when Hermione needed him the most. At the Grangers, who apparently had never entirely forgiven their daughter for erasing their memories. At Mrs. Weasley, who had proven that even friends could turn away.

That was not going to happen here. Fleur turned on her side and stared at Hermione. A strand of brown hair lay over the sleeping woman's mouth, moving gently up and down with her breaths out and in.

"**I will not leave you,**" Fleur promised, perfectly poised despite speaking to someone who could not hear. "**I _chose_ you. I chose _you_.**"

Hermione shifted in her sleep, and her hair tumbled over her face. Fleur brushed it away. She was turning over to lie facing away from Hermione when she heard a murmur.

"Mulciber."

Fleur jerked. "**What?**"

"Mulciber," Hermione said sleepily. "Mulciber...my arms."

"**Mulciber did...that?**"

Hermione made no answer. She had gone back to sleep.


	27. Groan

Throughout Hogwarts, the clocks chimed nine o'clock. Hermione looked up from her paperwork. "Alice, you may go, if you've finished your lines."

The sixth year, serving detention for being caught out with her boyfriend after curfew, gratefully gathered up her things. She handed Hermione a piece of paper, on which had been written five hundred times, _I will not leave Hufflepuff Tower after curfew. The sole purpose of the Astronomy Tower is for stargazing. Besides this, allowing my boyfriend to remove my scarf, which is emblazoned with a badger and my initials, and subsequently leaving said scarf in the Astronomy Tower, are foolish acts._

Hermione rarely assigned any punishment other than lines, but she was thorough. As far as she was concerned, the third offense was by far the worst. She had often crept around after curfew herself, and the Astronomy Tower was a very convenient meeting place, but to be so stupid as to leave behind proof of one's visit! The only thing stopping Hermione from revising her high estimate of Alice Copper's worth was the fact that her best friend had once left his Invisibility Cloak at the top of the same tower.

Hermione tried very hard not to envy her pupils, and in general she succeeded. She could manage not to begrudge them their innocence of Voldemort and other, smaller evils. Right now, however, watching Alice leave her room, heading for a Saturday full of Exploding Snap and Wizard's Chess, Hermione glared at the wall. Her plans for the next day included grading, making up an exam, grading, attending a staff meeting, and more grading.

Indulging for a moment the self pity that she usually managed to fend off, Hermione groaned and let her shoulders slump. Her head fell onto the desk with a loud clunk.

"Is it so bad?"

Hermione looked up. "Not really, I suppose. It's just that there's so much of it." Her eyes narrowed. "How is it that you're free to harass me? Surely you have similar duties to tend to."

Malfoy grinned smugly. "Unlike you, I don't feel the need to write five-foot essays critiquing the three-foot scribbles of my students. I scan it, dash off a scathing comment and an appropriate grade, and move on."

"What about the exam? You can't do a slipshod job of _that_, at least."

The insufferable grin grew wider. "Fifty percent of each is hands on. Most of the rest is from previous years."

She glared. "You disgust me. Get out."

"You should do the same thing. It would make your life easier. I'll never understand why you slave away year after year, when-"

"Out. Now."

Malfoy left, laughing a little to himself. Groaning at her colleague's outlook on life, Hermione went back to her papers.

Three hours later, she was finished. She rose, stretching to relieve some of the tension in her back. Then it was the long walk from her office to her quarters.

When she murmured the password, she expected to step into a room still in the way a chamber only is when the occupants of the house have long ago retired for the night. Dominiuque, now a fourth year, slept in the Ravenclaw dorm, and the occasions when Hermione found her reading in the living room were no more.

Yet as soon as Hermione entered the room, she knew it was occupied.

A rustle...

The gentle touch of fingertips brushing her hair from her neck...

Warm breath on her skin...

Twenty minutes later, Hermione groaned again, for a reason as akin to paperwork as a radish is to a hippogriff.

* * *

A/N: Thank you to all of the reviewers, including those of the anonymous variety, with whom I am very vexed because I cannot write them replies to thank them personally.


	28. Dancing

Laughs ripple over one another like currents in a stream, and like the flowing waters they leave grooves. Every magical maiden of every fairy-tale loves a laugh, and only false princesses are rendered less lovely by the marks thereof.

Hermione was genuine. The lines around her eyes lent dignity to the wit within them. The silver strands that had recently found their way into her hair gave it character. And the quieter her voice grew, the stronger it became.

Fleur had pitied a girl with scars on her arms.

She loved a woman with bare arms and an amethyst necklace dangling from her wrist.

She had befriended a girl who truly cared for Dominique.

She loved a woman who had taught Dominique to trust.

She had fallen in love with a girl who had literally waltzed into her classroom one day and pulled her into the middle of the floor.

She loved a woman who could be found, late at night when she couldn't think of anything more to write on her latest tome, dancing alone by her desk, trying vainly to make a sensible pencil skirt swirl alluringly.

Hermione had ripened with age, like a fine wine. She was somehow _more_ everything. More trusting, more understanding, more willing to learn, more patient, and more beautiful.

In all honesty, Fleur knew nothing about wines. She could not tell whether a jewel was real or fake. She was at a loss to critique most literature. The subtleties of symphonies were lost on her. But she knew Hermione Granger, in whom were united rich tones, sparkling facets, and thrilling harmonies of divers kinds.

That was enough for her.


	29. Fire

If on a winter's night a traveler came to a certain little cottage in the woods seeking shelter from the elements, he would disturb a scene so sickeningly heartwarming that he would undoubtedly suffer an attack of the warm and fuzzies, and stumble away into the blinding storm, untouched by the cold that almost paralyzed him a moment before.

Picture this:

It is a living room, done up in warm reds and blues, with elegant dark-wood furniture. A white cat is perched on a little table by the window. She seems to find something of interest in the ferns decorating the icy panes. She cares naught, however, for the cozy tableau behind her, the part of this whole affair that is our principal concern.

Two elderly women are sitting in armchairs opposite each other. Both have silver hair, both are wearing plain black robes, and both are reading thick books in foreign tongues. Neither stirs, and each seems totally unaware of her companion. Watch for long enough, however, and one will glance up as she turns a page. A small smile will steal over her face. She may say something under her breath, but it is difficult to be sure from this distance. She will certainly not wait for any response before she flicks her brown eyes back to her book.

A moment later, the other woman's blue eyes slide slyly upwards, leaving the curlicued page to focus on the face across from her. She definitely says something; though the other woman acknowledges it only by a smile, it is clearly of great amusement value.

There is nothing remarkable about these interactions, save a sense that they are entirely genuine. It seems impossible for the women in the cottage to be otherwise than at peace with each other.

An observer familiar with politics of the Wizarding World might recognize them, but he would find it hard to believe his eyes. That the widow whose disappearance had caused such an uproar among the Weasleys, now the foremost pureblood family, was quietly reading with the most famous war heroine would not be in itself a surprise-no relationship such as theirs could be kept a secret forever-but what would be startling was their general demeanor.

They look for all the world like two old friends who have never ventured outside of their humble village. Occasionally, a chorus of clocks chimes some hour or fraction of one, and a woman shifts in her seat. Finally, midnight is sounded, and both women rise as one. The smaller one, the one with brown eyes, gets up and stretches, reaching for her cane. She has kept herself in good shape, but her leg was injured in the war, and it tends to become stiff after long periods of inactivity. She sets her book on her chair and exits the room by the only door.

The taller woman lingers, staring about the comfortable room as though she cannot believe her luck. At last she comes to the window. Gazing into the night, at exactly the spot where any observer might stand, she shuts the curtains. A moment later, the light behind them disappears as the fire dies.

* * *

A/N: This is random, but it works, I think. Let me know your opinions.


	30. Flower garden

A flower garden is a magical place. Some blooms speak of friendship, others of war. But as everyone knows, it is the roses that speak of love.

The white roses Headmistress Dominique Malfoy planted speak of the first kiss and the moment when two people fall in love.

The red roses that grow around the Burrow weep for fights and the yellow roses creeping up the cottage walls laugh with all the joyful moments.

In the end, it is the pink roses planted by our ladies' graves that tell the full story. There is both purity and passion in a pink rose. A pink rose means admiration that defies familiarity's contempt.

Malfoy, who was there for it all, approaches two graves quietly and leaves as quickly as he can with his cane. Perhaps his daughter-in-law awaits, or maybe he is simply tired. He'll be back tomorrow with another white rose. When he comes, he will place the flower beside others of its kind, and the wind will scatter the petals.

Sometimes Ronald Weasley comes, apologizing with a crimson rose as he never could with words. His sister watches him go, waiting in the shadows with a yellow rose. He doesn't want to see her here.

When all of these have come and gone with their myriad agendas, two more shadows emerge from the trees. Their names change every day, and their faces, but they are ever the same. A girl and a boy, sometimes, but more often two girls or two boys, clinging desperately to each other. It is these illicit lovers who leave pink roses. They say, _We admire you._ They wonder, _How could you have been so brave?_ and occasionally, if the bearers are of a certain kind, the roses say, _Someday... Someday, we'll do what you did... Someday, we'll be that brave._


End file.
